Fresh Meat The Expanded Version
by silver ruffian
Summary: Teenaged Dean hunts cannibal fuglies and gets much closer to the action than he intended. Multi-chapter fic, expansion of drabbles I wrote for Enkidu07's birthday.
1. let's hear it for the ladies who lunch

_**A/N #1:**_ This story contains a lot of the stuff I had to cut from the drabble. We got Hurt!Dean, Irate!Sammy, Guilty!John and Bemused!Bobby Singer and Pastor Jim Murphy. There's also a lot of nausea and stomach upset still in this story. The opinions of Dean Winchester do not represent this writer. Chapter title taken from the song _Pretty Women – The Ladies Who Lunch,_ written by Stephen Sondheim for _Sweeney Todd_.

_**A/N #2:**_ Thanks to Phoebe Davis for her research into growth spurts. Also want to thank everyone who reviewed the Fresh Meat drabble. I haven't had time to respond back to you yet. I have time now, and I will respond. I really appreciate your reading and reviewing, and I want to read and review the wonderful drabbles that were submitted to last week's E/O Challenge.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Sam, Dean, Bobby, John, or Pastor Jim. Eric's letting me play with them for a while.

**S**_**ummary:**_ This is the expanded version of the Fresh Meat drabbles I wrote for Enkidu07's birthday. Teenaged Dean hunts cannibal fuglies and gets closer to the action than he intended.

* * *

_**Chapter 1 - let's hear it for the ladies who lunch**_

"Depends who you talk to," Jim Murphy said solemnly. "Some say they were human, once." It was kind of unreal, sitting at his kitchen table in Blue Earth, discussing man-eaters. The kitchen was sunlit, plain but cheerful. Dean knew that Mickey Mouse cookie jar on the counter was a gift from one of the parishioners, just like those bright green flowered curtains at the window.

Bobby Singer sat on the wooden chair on the opposite side. John Winchester sat beside Dean. Dean tried to look bored, but he had to admit he was kind of jittering inside, in a good way, though. It was really something, being included in on something like this. Showed that they trusted him with whatever his part was going to be in this, otherwise he'd be on the back porch cooling his heels with Sammy.

This was gonna get messy. Dean was sure of _that_.

The kitchen table was covered with crime scene photos (no telling where Bobby got those from), books from Pastor Jim's own library, copies of other hunters' journal entries and various other police reports and yellowed newspaper clippings.

"Some say they were part of the Donner party." It was Pastor Jim's own version of one of Dad's marine lectures, but coming from him it really did sound like a sermon. "They ate long pig, and liked it. And they've liked it ever since. Others say that they're a civilized version of Wendigo."

John huffed at that. Bobby grimaced slightly. Wendigos were ravenous hunger given solid form. Even "civilized" would be bad. Hellacious bad.

"And for whatever reason," Jim continued quietly, "they decided to live among their food source. Us. The only constants, the only things we know for sure is this: They're always female. Always tall, and pale, always silver blonde, with light grey eyes. Their teeth and claws are retractable. Needle sharp, very poisonous. Oddly enough, they can be killed with silver, either bullets or blades, and every year they gather together for a feast."

"How many?" John rumbled.

"There are supposedly thirteen of them."

Dean glanced down at this woodprint in one of the open books that showed a demon with pointed teeth chowing down on the guts of this wide-eyed shepherd boy. Damn thing was slurping the kid's intestines down like spaghetti. Some of the crime scene photos showed some of the victims (well, their remains, really) with that same look of disbelief on their faces, mouths stretched wide in a silent, eternal scream.

Dean knew that Sammy was hovering around nearby on the porch, just past the screen door, waiting for them to finish so he could eat lunch.

One of the victims was just shreds and strings of pinkish muscle on gnawed bone. There was just enough skin left that Dean could tell that the fingers and the tip of the nose had been eaten off.

Dean figured he'd pass on lunch.

Dad looked tired. Dean didn't like the redness around his eyes. He'd heard the old man come in the night before, and the fact that Dean heard him at all, stumbling around in the dark, was worrisome enough. Usually John moved silently, like a ghost.

"This time," Jim added quietly, "we have the location and the details for the next feast. We have Gordon Walker to thank for that. He encountered one of these, ah, ladies a few days ago. Convinced her to talk to him before she died. It's at a house out on 4566 Outer Mason Road, in Calumet County, about one hundred twenty miles from here. According to Gordon, she told him that they needed thirteen for the feast. There has been a rash of disappearances in the area. Eight people so far."

"Huh," Bobby scowled. "And why isn't Gordon here himself?"

Pastor Jim smiled. "I called in a favor, and Gordon has been detained by Sheriff Hensen. Just for the next forty eight hours. The feast is tonight. I don't think Gordon's, ah, suited for this kind of operation."

Bobby snort-chuckled.

"We need somebody on the inside," John said wearily. He pinched the spot between his eyes. "I'll--"

"I'll do it," Dean said simply. He didn't usually interrupt his dad. John stopped and looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Why not? It'll be cake. And besides, Dad," Dean cast a mock serious eye on John and laughed. "Bet they like young, fresh meat. Like me. Your old ass might be a little too tough for 'em."

Pastor Jim sighed. It was obvious that he wasn't thrilled with the idea, either, but this would not have been Dean's first hunt. The boy was smart, resourceful, and level-headed, better than most of the adult hunters Jim had ever seen, even at the age of eighteen. Still…

"We have to discuss this," Jim said gravely, and Bobby, Dean and John nodded solemnly.

Out on the porch the floorboards creaked as Sam got up and started walking away from the house. Dean was the only one who noticed; no one else did.

Sam walked about a quarter mile, out to the pond in the pasture behind the rectory. It was quiet and peaceful back there. Dragonflies zipped through the air all around him. Frogs croaked noisily. He'd spent many a summer back there, catching frogs and dragonflies and letting them go, just to see if he could. The place never failed to calm him.

Not this time.

He was able to hold it in, but when he reached the water's edge his gut rebelled at last, and fourteen year old Sam Winchester was violently ill.

* * *

Dean sat on the front porch swing two hours later. Sam had _The Look_ on his face. Dean figured something was up.

Sammy was deadly serious; that no nonsense attitude radiated out from him in waves. He was a miniature John Winchester, his blue green eyes flat and almost slitted. Dean schooled his own features into a neutral look as he strapped the knife sheath to his right ankle. He didn't want to laugh. That would further enrage the smaller beast.

"What are you gonna do if they handcuff you?" Sam said flatly as he eyed the silver knife Dean slipped into the sheath.

Dean flexed his calf muscles against the straps. Snug fit. Just right. He shrugged. "I'll pick the lock."

"Pastor Jim says they eat people. "

"Yeah. So?"

"What if they cut your hands off first?" Sam gritted out.

Dean smirked as he slipped four large silver metal paper clips onto the topmost strap. He pulled the leg of his worn blue jeans down. "I'll pick the lock with my teeth."

Way wrong answer.

Everything went stark blinding white in the next second. Dean's ears rung like cathedral bells, and it took him a second to realize that the little snot had actually punched him in the face.

"SAMMY!"

Dean couldn't see, but he sensed it, Sammy's fist coming straight at his already throbbing nose for another go round. Dean put his hand up and his fingers closed around the kid's closed hand. Dean flinched as a fresh bolt of pain shot through his face. "Dude, what the hell is your damn problem?"

The fog burned away, finally, and Dean saw double. The two pissed off Sams melted into just one. Sam's look of outrage deepened.

_Shit. _

"You gonna leave me here with Dad. Is that it?"

Dean let go of Sam's fist, experimentally wriggled the tip of his nose with his fingers. Damn. Still hurt, but it probably wasn't broken. "No. We're gonna leave you here with Pastor Jim," he said nasally. He frowned at the sound of his voice.

"Why are you putting yourself out there as bait? Why can't Dad do it?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Sam?"

"You go out there and get yourself killed, I'm stuck with Dad."

"Wh-what?"

"Dad's never here for us, and you know it. You know I'm right, but you take up for him all the time. I heard you in there, Dean. Heard you tell Dad you'd be the bait so he wouldn't have to. He doesn't care about anything but the hunt---"

Dean growled then, low and deep in his throat. He was up on his feet and on Sam in a heartbeat. Dean fisted both hands in Sammy's thin blue t shirt as he turned him around and slammed him hard up against the side of the porch.

"Don't you say it," Dean snarled roughly. "Don't. You hear me, Sam?"

Sam didn't care. Didn't care that Dean was taller than him. Didn't care that he knew that Dean absolutely did not want to hear the words tumbling out of his mouth.

"What'll happen to me if you die out there, huh? You take care of me. You care about me. Dad doesn't. He's never around, and you know it. He's lied to us, Dean. Long as I can remember, he's lied to us. He's never here. You think Mom really wanted us to live this kind of life — "

"Shut up. Shut the hell up, you hear me? I'm not gonna die. I'm not." Dean punctuated each word by pushing Sam back into the porch railing with a hard thump. "You're gonna stay here with Pastor Jim and we'll come back for you when the job's done. And I don't _ever _wanna hear you say that shit _again_, you hear me, Sam? _Not ever_."

Sam growled back. He swiped at Dean's hands, but it was already over. Dean stepped back, watched as his brother jerked away from him and stalked off.

_Jesus._ Dean remembered a time when Sam wasn't like this, all brooding, and irritable. The slightest thing nowadays set him off. They'd gotten into an argument about toothpaste once, for God's sake. The thin, scratchy bedsheets in the motel room they were staying in was the subject of another Sam bitch rant the next night.

And Dad? John Winchester's failings were a sore spot with Sam, something the kid prodded and poked at all the damn time now. It was easy to moan and bitch about Dad. There was always something for Sam to complain about.

Dead rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Rolled his shoulders as he felt that now familiar knot of tension form between his shoulder blades. His stomach felt slightly queasy.

Dean rolled his eyes. _Damn. Not now._

Dean knew that Sam would come back into the house, before they left on the hunt. Sam would want to talk about Dean's feelings then, and what the hell good was _that_ gonna do? That emo stuff was poison, and Dean stayed as far away from it as he could, whenever he could. He couldn't understand why Sam bitched like a damn girl now. He was getting worse every day.

Dean pushed it all down, the tension and the nausea, pushed it down deep, into his body. It was the only way he knew how to deal. It was _his_ way, and it had worked so far, hadn't it? Now was definitely not the damn freaking time for all that damn freaking emo crap.

This was his gig. _His._ Not Dad's. He was better suited for it, didn't mind pulling his own weight, doing what he could to keep the family together. Dean took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders again. They were loose again. He felt solid again. It was all good.

He had work to do.

* * *

A/N: This is complete. Next chapter's up Saturday, and I will post every other day after that. Phoebe has threatened me with great bodily harm if I do not update Coyote's Tale, among others. SOON. Step away from the whip, Davis. Everybody else, if you don't mind, hit the button and let me know what you think.


	2. Not while I'm around

_**Chapter 2 - Not while I'm around**_

_**A/N:**_ This is_ not_ an AU, and it's_ not_ a deathfic. Chapter title is taken from _Not While I'm Around_ from _Sweeney Todd_, written by Stephen Sondheim. Partial lyrics at the end of this chapter.

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, or John, Jim, or Caleb. This is just for fun, not profit.

* * *

"Dad?"

_Christ._ John froze in place for the barest second. He managed to keep his shoulders up and back. Not a good idea to have your shoulders slump at the sound of your youngest son's voice. Not a good idea at all.

Nowadays just about anything was liable to set Sam off. _Sam, not Sammy._ "Sammy's a chubby four year old" the kid snarled at him the last time John called him that.

_Might as well get this over with._

John straightened up from the Impala's trunk, carefully zipped up the duffel with the camouflaged crossbow and silver tipped bolts. He glanced up at the afternoon sun, a deceptively casual gesture, knew that Sam knew he was checking the sun, calculating how much daylight was left.

John was putting a time limit on the conversation. They both knew that, too.

Sam stared at John grimly. "Dean's playing bait tonight, right?"

John slipped the car keys into his jacket pocket, closed the Impala's hood in one smooth motion. He nodded solemnly as he turned to look at his youngest son.

"He volunteered." John said calmly.

Sam ferociously probed all around that wall, that shield that his Dad had up around him all the damn time now, searching for a weak spot. Sam bristled. "Just because he volunteered, _Dad_, doesn't make it right."

"Get to the point, Sam," John said quietly. He didn't miss the inflection; he just chose to ignore it.

"He's your _son_, Dad. Not your soldier. _That's_ the point."

"Whatever you have to say to me, say it." _I don't need to hear this now. I don't._

"Either you come back here with Dean alive and well, or you don't come back here at all."

John didn't blink. "Is that it?"

"Yes, _sir_."

John nodded. "Alright. You've had your say. You're staying with Jim until we get back. No more drama tonight. Understand me, Sam?"

"I need to know—" Sam's voice wavered. Just a little. It was a weakness, a crack in Sam's otherwise tough front. John pounced on it, not out of animosity, but out of habit. Sam pushed, now John pushed back.

"Need to know _what_, Sam?" John's tone was dangerously quiet. They were on the edge now. John knew it, and Sam didn't care.

"Need to know that you won't let him die out there." Sam blinked. His eyes became bright and wet. "I need to know Dean's coming home alive and unhurt after this is all over."

John blinked. Finally. "Nothing's going to happen to Dean. Or to you. Not while I'm around." John's voice softened slightly. "You know that, Sam."

"No, Dad. I don't." Sam backed away, towards the house. He shook his head in the negative, over and over again. "I don't believe you. Mom's dead."

There it was, that brief flash of pain in John's eyes. It was a fleeting victory, and Sam knew it. John straightened his shoulders slightly as he settled himself again. The wall came back up, and Sam hated him for it.

"You…you couldn't save _her_, could you? Mom's dead, Dad. Why should I believe anything you say?"

Pastor Jim came out on the front porch as Sam brushed past. Jim opened his mouth to say something and then wisely decided not to. After all, the boy was on his way inside to say goodbye to his older brother.

His older brother whom he adored. His older brother who might or might not come back from this hunt. One never knew what each day might bring, what day might be your last. Pastor Jim knew that better than anyone. Normal family business was prickly stuff; Winchester family business was like a cactus on steroids, damn near impossible to grasp sometimes.

Sam would come around later. If not, Jim could lure the boy out in the open with that baked chicken he liked so much. They'd sit in his kitchen with the window open and listen to the crickets and frogs give their nightly summertime concert outside. Sam would talk, and Jim would listen. Sam hadn't eaten lunch, and he was bound to be hungry.

John just stood there by the Impala as he watched his youngest storm into the house. Pastor Jim kept his face carefully neutral. Lord, he loved John like a brother, but even on his best day 'pig-headed' didn't even begin to describe him.

* * *

"Sorry I hit you," Sam mumbled softly as he threw himself onto his bed.

_Cutting it a little close there, bro',_ Dean thought to himself as Sam stalked into the room. For a moment Dean was worried the little brat wouldn't show. That prickling sensation in Dean's sinuses actually eased up then. Eased up a lot. Allergies from pollen.

Yeah, that was it.

"Hit me? Is _that_ what that was, Samantha?" Dean scoffed as he slipped on this green fatigue jacket Sam had never seen before. "You hit like a girl."

His nose twinged a little at the lie. Dean shrugged. "Barely felt it."

"Yeah. Right."

"Dude," Dean said, almost proudly. "Bobby's got me lojacked."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"This jacket. Bobby's letting me wear it. Got a bug sewn in the lining. Bobby's gonna track me with the receiver."

"Uh huh," Sam said flatly. "Uncle Bobby's idea, huh? Not Dad."

Dean scowled as his stomach gave a slow, lazy flip flop. "Sam, look, don't start that again, all right? This is gonna be cake."

Dean shrugged as Sam got off the bed and walked over, staring at the jacket. Dean slipped his watch on. "It's just a bunch of girls, anyway. I could take 'em with one hand tied behind my back."

Sam snorted. "They're cannibals, Dean."

"It's okay. I taste good," Dean snarked. Sam flinched.

"Look, you worry too much, all right? Dad and Bobby have my back. I'm gettin' sick of hearing you bitch and moan, Sam. Especially about this."

Sam took a breath. His eyes were slightly red, and from the way his breath rattled a little in his nose and throat sounded like he'd been crying. Or close to it. He came in the front door, past Dad, and yeah, Dean heard practically the whole damn conversation.

_Don't wanna leave like this. I'm coming back. I am. _

Dean normally wasn't the most sensitive kid around (well, he was, sometimes anyway, he just went the opposite way to hide it) so he grabbed Sam by the neck and shoulders, held him there and ruffled the hell out of the kid's hair with one hand.

Sam gave a surprised but pleased squawk. He didn't struggle much.

It was better than a hug. A hug would've seemed too…girly.

"Getting kinda shaggy there, Samantha," Dean drawled as he released his brother.

Sam blinked underneath this mop of wild hair. "Jerk."

Dean grinned. "Bitch."

"Dean?" John rumbled from below. "Time to roll, kiddo."

Sam actually deflated at the sound of John's voice. Dean sighed. "Gonna kick your ass when I get back for all this drama you put us through, Sammy," Dean growled. He headed for the door, and there was a moment, just a second, when he thought Sam was gonna follow him.

No such luck. Sam backed up, flopped down on Dean's bed with his face set in this mulish look, eyes staring down at the floor.

Dean paused in the doorway._ Don't do this to me, dude. Please, don't. You can at least see me off, right? That's not too much to ask, is it?_

There it was again, that knot of tension right between his shoulders, immediately followed by that damn prickle in his nose.

_Shit._

Dean turned away. He rolled his shoulders as he walked down the hallway. He carefully pinched the bridge of his nose and when he raised his head he felt himself settle into his familiar swagger. He was on a job, damn it, with two of the best hunters he'd ever hunted with, John Winchester and Bobby Singer. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing.

It wasn't like these fuglies were basilisk, or gorgons. Now _those _were bad-ass. It would be time to worry then, kiss your ass good-bye almost for certain.

John and Pastor Jim stood at the bottom of the stairs. Pastor Jim nodded.

"Chapter and verse, Ace," John growled. "Let me hear it."

Dean rolled his eyes. "There are thirteen of 'em in this cluster. They're the Handmaidens of Ba'al Zebûb. Loosely translated Lord of the Flies, Beelzebub. Demon of gluttony. Silver kills 'em, stone cold dead. Bobby's got me lojacked, you guys will be nearby. The feast is tonight. They start butchering people at nightfall. Naturally, they won't be able to resist adding yours truly to the menu. Once I'm inside, I get loose, and start killing as many sonsabitches as I possibly can."

John raised an eyebrow. "Dean?"

"Okay, okay, only if I have to. My main objective is to get to the hostages and secure them."

John nodded. "Okay, then."

Pastor Jim stepped up then, and Dean didn't struggle as the padre hugged him. Hey, it was manly enough, and Dean could feel the blessing in the gesture anyway as Jim patted him on the back once.

"Safe hunt, Dean," Jim Murphy whispered into his ear. Dean nodded gruffly and stepped back.

"We got a fourth wheel on this one," John drawled as they stepped out onto the porch. "Don't know how much use he's gonna be."

Dean looked at the young man leaning against the pick up truck with the four dogs sitting alertly in the back. "Hey! Caleb!"

"Thought you might need a little help on this one," Caleb's drawl was just as soft and unhurried as ever. He shrugged. "Besides, the boys here need some practice." One of the dogs leaned forward and slurped noisily at Caleb's left ear.

John rolled his eyes as he went for the driver's side of the Impala. "Dean, you're riding with me. Jim got us blueprints of the house. You need to take a look at 'em."

Dean went for the passenger side. John nodded at Bobby and Caleb, and the other two men moved to their vehicles.

Time to go.

Pastor Jim stood on his front porch and watched them go. He said a prayer for them inside his head, naturally, not out loud, a prayer to bless and protect them all, with a safe journey back. He could hear Sam moving around upstairs, hear the sounds Sam was making, and it broke his heart.

Upstairs Sam sat frozen on Dean's bed. He heard the voices outside, and that pit in his stomach just kept getting bigger and heavier. He flinched when he heard the doors squeak, and the rumble of the Impala's engine, loud at first, then fading off into the distance.

Sam barely remembered crying, or throwing himself off the bed. Even as he lurched down the hallway, his body remembered where the bathroom was, even if his mind didn't. There was nothing in his stomach, but he dry retched anyway, blinking, heaving. Over and over again.

Dean wasn't coming back. Didn't matter what Dad _said_, didn't matter what Bobby _did_.

Dean was_ gone_.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ This fits so well, it's scary. The song is _Not While I'm Around, _from _Sweeney Todd, _written by Stephen Sondheim. Here are some of the lyrics:

_Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around.  
Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around._

_Demons are prowling everywhere, nowadays,  
I'll send 'em howling,  
I don't care, I got ways._

_No one's gonna hurt you,  
No one's gonna dare.  
Others can desert you,  
Not to worry, whistle, I'll be there._

_Demons'll charm you with a smile, for a while,  
But in time...  
Nothing can harm you  
Not while I'm around..._

* * *

_**Next chapter's up Monday. **_


	3. we'll take him to some secret place

_**A/N:**_ And now we come to the beginning of the Hurt!Dean, HalfNekkid!Dean, Dean in chains, Dean whumpage portion of our story. I want to thank everyone who read and reviewed, everyone who put this story on their Story Alert, and everybody who lurked. I've been doing the happy dance all weekend long! Chapter title taken from _Epiphany_, by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_).

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own John, Dean, Sam, Bobby, Pastor Jim, or Caleb. Damn.

* * *

_**Chapter 3 - we'll take him to some secret place...**_

"_You know the drill, Dean. I know this isn't your first hunt. But it is the first time you've ever played bait…"_

They looked human, but they circled him on all fours, their arms and legs bent in all the wrong places. If you'd told Dean before that the sight of bare, lean female flesh would leave him cold he wouldn't have believed you.

But it did.

"_You take it easy out there, son…" _

They grinned at him as they padded sideways, showed their needle-like teeth to him, stared him up and down.

"_Don't take unnecessary chances."_

Dean blinked, and the lead huntress was suddenly nose to nose with him. Her breath smelled like a slaughterhouse. He was already a little nervous, and he couldn't understand how she'd gotten that close that fast. It startled him. Besides, the bitch grinned at him like he was her newly found plaything.

Dean tagged her in the face with his fist and sent her sprawling.

"_Don't make it too hard for 'em."_

The blonde rolled to her feet easily, laughing. Dean didn't press his advantage. He stepped back and the others shrieked high pitched laughter, and the sound got on Dean's nerves even more.

It was hard. Hard to stand there like some panicked civilian, wide-eyed, pretending to be scared.

Thing was, he _was _scared. Just a little. Couldn't be helped, but he knew that Dad and Bobby and Caleb were nearby. Dean knew this whole thing depended on him. This was the only chance they had to wipe out a cluster of these bitches, otherwise it would be another year gone by, twelve more months of crime scene photos like the ones on Pastor Jim's kitchen table.

Dean settled himself.

The blonde raised herself up on her hind legs, and the sound of her bones and muscles and tendons snapping and sliding into place was unlike anything Dean had ever seen or heard before. Her left hand was clenched tight.

He hadn't noticed that before. She pointed her fist at him, opened her hand, and pursed her lips as she blew at the dirt in her palm.

It sparkled in the sunlight, clung to his eyelashes, wormed its way into the corners of his eyes, gritty and heavy. Dean smelled lavender and sage and something else he couldn't identify, something heavy and warm that filled his lungs, stole his breath.

He was too tired to fight anymore.

He had the feeling of being moved. Voices swirled in the thick darkening air around him, high pitched squeals, low rumbles and growls that no human throat could make. Their faces shifted and dripped, melted candlewax, all mouths and sharp jagged teeth.

He tried to struggle, tried to move. Couldn't. It was all too much.

They stroked the side of his face, whispered into his ear.

"…sleep now, beauty…sleep…"

So he did.

* * *

It was awkward, real awkward. Caleb obviously wanted to say something, but just what do you say to a fellow hunter who just watched his eldest son get dragged off by some monsters? Caleb tended to his dogs instead. They were, as usual, extremely well trained. They didn't bark, or even whine.

It was a hard thing, to hide and just to sit there and watch as Dean Winchester was dragged off by those things.

Even harder if you were Dean Winchester's father. That kind of thing was something Bobby had never had to do in his life as a hunter, and in a perverse way, he was thankful for it. He wondered now how John stood it.

What Bobby Singer cared about appearing awkward could be placed on the head of a pin. "How you doin', Winchester?" Bobby drawled softly.

John huffed. "My eldest son used himself as bait. My youngest hates me right now. How do you think I feel, Singer?"

Bobby frowned a little. John was a little too raw, too open. After what they'd seen that was to be expected, but still...

John pulled his machete out, carefully examined the blade. It was razor sharp, coated with silver. Something he could focus on. He ignored the way his gut boiled and burned. He could think about the hunt, think about killing those bitches.

_All_ of them, especially the ones who took his son. If he focused on the way Dean crumpled to the ground it would break him.

John shrugged as he sheathed the machete. "Sam told me that if I didn't bring Dean back alive, not to come back myself. He'll be a handful for Jim tonight."

"Jim Murphy can handle a fourteen year old kid." Bobby sighed. "What about you?"

John stared at the ground. "This isn't…" he said thickly, and then his voice trailed off. Those broad shoulders shook. It was a slight movement, but Bobby caught it just the same.

Bobby waited.

John took a deep breath, his face carefully blank. "This isn't the life I wanted for my boys, you know? It tears me up inside each and every time Dean goes out on a hunt."

John took a deep breath, and Bobby saw the change in him when he raised his head to look Bobby in the eyes. Bobby watched him go from John the father to John the hunter. That was who Dean needed now.

Still waters run deep. Bobby had always suspected John was one of the deep ones, despite that rough and gruff exterior. The problem wasn't that John didn't love his boys; the problem was he loved them too much. After Mary died, John held Dean and Sam close, maybe a little _too_ close. They were his one weakness. Always were, always would be.

It wasn't always black and white in the world. Sammy had it wrong, but hell, how do you tell a fourteen old kid that?

Bobby just nodded quietly. No sense in pushing it. Watching Dean get taken was hard, and from now on it would only get harder.

They waited.

* * *

_Dean. _

That was it. His name was _Dean_.

"Nice…lean meat…." Her fingers were cold, but Dean didn't care. He was still tired, and they held him up. The one in front of him…

_Mom…_

She looked like his mother. Blonde shining hair.

"...sweet boy..."

Eyes were funny. He didn't like the way she looked at him.

_Not right. Not…_

Her hands moved all over his bare stomach, up his sides, over his chest in long, possessive strokes. He couldn't remember where his jacket, shirt and boots went.

_Winchester. Tha's m' name. Dean…Winchester…_

He had a brother, Sammy.

…_mad at me…Sammy's mad at me…_

His Dad was supposed to be nearby, but he wasn't.

…_please, dad…_

"Too much drugs and you can taste it in the meat." She smiled, bared her pointed teeth at Dean. "The last feast we had? They used too much. Made me sick."

She cupped Dean's face in her cold, pale hands. He barely blinked.

_Winchester. John…Winchester…_

Dad told him how to act. Dad depended on him.

_I trust you with this, Dean. You know I do._

"…such a pretty boy…" Her eyes swallowed him up., filled his head with thick clouds and that funny, floating feeling.

John's rough growl of a voice. Sammy's bitchface. Dean wanted them. Not this. Never this.

…_told Sammy I was coming back…told him…_

"Amara," the mother said sternly. One of the others stepped forward and bowed. Her waist length silver blonde hair was parted in the middle. "Be careful when you butcher this one. Lovely eyes. Beautiful skin and hair." She moved her hands down his neck and shoulders. "We can always use the skin. Be a shame to waste it."

She opened her mouth and her tongue rolled out, long and bluish grey. She licked the side of Dean's jaw in one long stroke.

_Dad…Echo Two one…_

Dean didn't even blink.

_...my...dad…_

"He's already sweet." She laughed. "Now make him tender. Don't bruise him. Much."

* * *

I decided to leave it right here 'cause I'm evil. There. I said it, and I feel better about it. (Thank you, Johnny Depp.)

Next chapter is Wednesday. Two words: Dean whumpage.


	4. There's a hole in the world

_**A/N:**_ We needed some Sam angst, y'all. Don't worry, the Dean whumpage still begins Wednesday, but I decided to post this tonight. I guess you'd call this a ficlet. I have Thru Terry's Eyes to thank for the inspiration for this chapter's title. The title's taken from the song _Epiphany_, from _Sweeney Todd_, written by Stephen Sondheim.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Sam, Dean, John, Bobby, Caleb, or Pastor Jim. Darn it.

* * *

_**Chapter 4 - There's a hole in the world like a great black pit.…**_

"_Nothing bad will happen to you."_

Sam sat on his bed with his back against the wall, and he rocked.

"_Or Dean. Not while I'm around."_

_Liar. _

Sam rocked. Over and over again.

_Don't believe you, Dad. You drop us off somewhere, anywhere, tell Dean to take care of me, and that's it. That's all you do. When have you been around for us, huh? When?_

Sam rocked.

_Thanksgiving? _

_Alukah_ hunt that night.

_Christmas? _

A _mullo. _John came home the day after New Years Day. A couple of days later he went right back out killed that _feu follet_ the next town over.

A few days before Christmas Eve, Uncle Bobby gave Sam an amulet. "Give it to your Dad for Christmas," the old man said.

Dad was never there. Dean always was.

Dean wears the amulet now, and he wears it proudly. Christmas night was the only time Sam had ever seen Dean act shy and unsure of himself, like he thought he didn't deserve the gift. Sam knew better.

Sam rocked forward and back. Over and over again.

_My birthday last year? You came home ripped all to hell by that eng banka. I spent the rest of the night smelling blood and antiseptic, listening to you grunt as Dean sewed you up. _

Sam rocked as the Impala moved down highways and back country roads, followed by Bobby's and Caleb's trucks. Sam rocked steadily as John, Dean, Bobby and Caleb set up their hunters' blind deep in the woods, one hundred and twenty miles away.

Sam hugged his knees with his arms as he rocked, and that felt good somehow. He was in control of this, at least.

"_He volunteered." John said calmly._

Sam rocked.

"_Just because he volunteered, __Dad__, doesn't make it right."_

No one listened to him. They hadn't before. He couldn't stop Dean from going on the hunt. Sam choked back a sob. No one ever listened to him now. Why the hell would they listen now? All Sam knew was that if Dean didn't come back, alive and well, Sam couldn't -- _wouldn't_ --- live with John Winchester anymore. It was that simple. There was no other option.

Sam rocked in the same steady motion as the sun climbed higher into the sky. He was dimly aware of the sunlight as shadows shifted across his feet and legs.

Pastor Jim came to the doorway once and just stood there for a few moments.

"Samuel? Are you hungry?"

Sam smelled baked chicken, broccoli and macaroni. He barely noticed as Pastor Jim came into the room. Didn't notice as the bed dipped slightly. Pastor Jim's voice was soft and low, but Sam didn't recognize the words.

He didn't want to.

Sam rocked, and his fear and pain didn't go away. Sometime later he realized Pastor Jim was gone. The plate of baked chicken and vegetables and a bottle of grape soda sat on the table. Sam's stomach churned at the sight of it all, but he steadied himself, willed his stomach to stop churning and boiling. He would_ not_ throw up. Not this time.

"_He's your __son__, Dad. Not your soldier."_

Miles away, Dean stood surrounded in the clearing in the middle of the woods.

Sam rocked.

Sam held himself tight as his brother fell to his knees, his eyes dazed, fading to blankness. Sam blinked away tears in the growing dark. He growled to himself, angry and sad, filled with rage and fear.

The pale monsters gathered all around Dean, lovingly ran their hands all over his trembling face and body and lulled him into oblivion.

"…sleep now, beauty…sleep…"

Sam rocked himself hard, stared into his own darkness as Dean was carried away.

* * *

_**A/N – Here are the fuglies:**_

Alukah - Babylonian demon who can take human form.

Mullo – Among the Romani, this is a revenant who craves human blood.

Eng banka – A demonic canine who steals human souls to feed on.

Feu follet – The ghost of a sinner who preys on children for their life force, and adults for their sexual energy.

* * *

_**Next chapter will be posted tomorrow.**_


	5. wondrous sweet and most delectable

_**A/N:**_ I meant Wednesday where I am, people! Thank you, Nana56, nice try! This chapter title taken from _God, That's Good!_ by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_). A warning: Dean curses in this chapter, so all you young'uns out there should cover your ears.

_**Disclaimer:**_ This is just for fun, not profit. I wish I did have a Dean of my own.

* * *

**Chapter 5 - …a wondrous sweet and most delectable thing…**

They pulled their claws, just like the Head Bitch in Charge told them to.

The first blow upside his head blurred his sight, knocked him backwards. Dean hit the floor in an awkward tangle of arms and legs. At first he couldn't understand why they hit him. He was a good boy. At least, he tried to be.

Dean shook his head to clear it.

_Fuck. _

He was still reeling from that magic poppy dust they'd nailed him with, out in the woods. Felt like he'd been on his feet for days. His muscles were blown. Yeah, he thought about kicking their asses, he had the visual, but he had nothing to back it up with.

Screams and shouts from other rooms, but nothing blood-curdling. Dean knew a dying scream when he heard one. Not these. Sounded like all the humans were being given the special treatment, being prepared.

_Make him tender…_

The hunting party was in the room with him, all six of the fugly bitches. They slinked around on all fours with their heads up. Reminded Dean of this nature special he'd seen once, about this cheetah family in Africa. He sympathized with the gazelle and the antelope, but he was also drawn to the cheetah, too.

Not this time. This time _he_ was the gazelle, and that shit was not gonna fly.

Funny thing was, they liked it better when he was out of his head. He could tell by the way they watched his eyes. He was back to himself now. Back on the job. Bobby and Dad and Caleb were depending on him, and Dean had no intention of letting them walk into a buzzsaw when it was time to move on these bitches. That was not an option.

Dean lurched back onto his feet. He very nearly went over sideways before he steadied himself.

The blonde in the lead laughed. "Such sweet meat," she sighed breathily. "So tender."

"Ladies," Dean drawled smoothly. Their eyes narrowed to slits. They didn't like his tone. The way Dean said it, _Ladies_ sounded just like _Bitches_.

He went airborne a moment later. He didn't even see the bitch move.

Dean hit the far wall leading with his right shoulder. He tried to go limp, but he tensed up just the same. He heard rather than felt a sharp crack of bone as his shoulder rotated out of its socket.

Dean saw constellations and galaxies of stars. He came back to himself lying on his side, panting like a dog on a hot summer day, with his right arm a white hot flare of throbbing pain.

"All right, then," Dean gasped raggedly as he rolled onto his knees, bracing himself with his left hand. The round knob of his right shoulder bone pushed up against his freckled skin. _Shit._

_Shit shit shit!_

Dean huffed as he straightened up. Right arm was useless, but Dad taught them to be ambidextrous. It was all good. "Bitches…"

The smallest one darted in and smacked him upside the head. Just like that.

Dean hit the floor again.

Huh.

Hadn't exactly covered himself in glory with this one. The bitches sniggered as they paced back and forth.

"All right. Okay." Dean took a breath. He raised his head.

"Think we got off on the wrong foot, _ladies_." There it was again. That inflection. _Bitches_. It was the smile on his face that stopped them. Too bright, too…feral. They hesitated, pale grey eyes flicking back and forth to one another.

"Name's Dean. Dean Winchester. Remember that, 'cause we're gonna have a quiz later on." He was still wobbly, all rubber-kneed, and he hated that feeling. Took a minute or so for him to get to his knees. He swayed a little as he straightened up, but they hadn't moved on him again. There was _that_, at least.

One of them inched forward. "Meat doesn't have a name," she growled roughly. "Meat doesn't talk. Only scream."

Dean huffed. "Who writes your dialogue, sweetheart? Seriously. You need to get out more."

Dean told himself it was the drug in his system. Yeah. Sure. None of this was damn funny, of course. Dad got Dean's sense of humor on occasion. Sammy never did.

Another one padded a step or two closer. She stared at Dean and her needle teeth slid down over her regular ones. Dean snort-chuckled. He really didn't do cowering in fear very well.

"Since you won't tell me your names, I'm gonna name you."

They looked puzzled.

"You," Dean nodded at Miss "Meat Screams", the first one. "I'm gonna name you Albert." Albert Pierson was a bully at a school Dean and Sam went to up in Stokes, Montana.

Albert changed his ways after he and Dean had a little talk underneath the bleachers.

"Albert" cocked her head to one side like a confused kitten. "And you," Dean said to the other one, "You're Minnie."

The one over to the side with the slight overbite? "You're Bugs." As in Bunny.

"Lambchop" was the one over by the door. The youngest one, maybe.

Then there was "Misty", who was bustier than the others. Looked like a 38C to Dean's practiced eye. The original Misty was a very friendly stripper at the Bounce night club in Mackey,Wisconsin. One more reason why Dean loved fake IDs, now and forever.

He named the last fug "Tallulah." No particular reason.

Dean stood there swaying slightly. The pain in his right arm roared, snapping and snarling at his raw nerve endings. A dull throb would have been nice, and if the buzz from that magic poppy dust had kicked in and dulled the pain that would have been even better. No such luck.

Time. Wouldn't be long now. Dean glanced up at the only window in the room. It was set high up in the far wall, covered by steel mesh. He could still see outside, and what he saw made him take a step back.

It was daylight out.

Dean blinked. Should have been night. Should have been…

They were on him then, had him down on his knees in less time it takes to tell.

"I want a taste," "Lambchop" moaned. She dipped her head towards Dean's uninjured shoulder. Her teeth dropped down as she licked her tongue out. "Just a taste. A nip. A bite." She rolled her eyes as she licked her tongue up the taut line of Dean's neck. Dean grimaced at the smell of her breath. "He's _soo _sweet, and I'm so _hungry_."

"Albert" had him by his injured right arm. She laughed, a low throaty growl, and Dean stared up at her with pain glazed, defiant eyes.

"Want to hear you scream, meat."

"Not even on your best day,_ bitch_," Dean choked out.

She pulled backwards on his arm, and the world around Dean exploded into white hot pain.

* * *

"Something's not right," Bobby whispered softly. He kept his shotgun raised as he swept the place with it.

Front hallway, according to the blueprints. Place was clean enough, in better shape than many of the deserted houses they'd seen in this line of work. Floor was swept clean. No furniture. Nothing on the walls.

John didn't answer. He started to move, and Bobby moved with him. Caleb brought up the rear, and his four dogs took point, silent as always. The dogs moved aside when John moved through, eyes narrowed, a curiously blank expression on his face.

After Dean was struck down and carried away, John and Bobby followed the group to the house. The two hunters had a clear line of sight. There was no mistake, no error.

The moon rode high overhead when they came down the stairs to the first floor again. They'd searched, gone from room to room, all three floors. It was the same everywhere.

No handmaidens.

No kidnap victims.

No Dean.

* * *

**_The Dean whump continues Friday._**


	6. The history of the world, my sweet

_**A/N #1 – **_Decided to post this hours early. I don't know anything about human flesh eating, and I really don't _want_ to know. I'm making this up as I go along. This chapter title's taken from _Try the Priest_ (or _A Little Priest) _by Stephen Sondheim (from _Sweeney Todd_). Thanks to Thru Terry's Eyes for providing info that too much adrenaline spoils the meat. What? Don't look at us like that!

_**A/N #2:**_ Haven't gotten around to responding to all the wonderful reviews. I apologize for that. Please know that I appreciate _everything_, the reviews, the PMs, the story/author alerts, the favorite story listings and the story traffic.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. Wish I did.

* * *

**_Chapter 6 - The history of the world, my sweet…_**

Dean screamed.

He bellowed. Loud and long.

It was white hot pain.

…_hurts…son of a bitch…Oh, God... _

And rage.

_Let Dad down. _

And sadness.

_Told Sammy I was comin' back…_

His scream blocked out the world. He couldn't feel the hands, mouths and tongues on his skin anymore.

He couldn't feel _anything_ for a moment, and _that_ was_ good_.

* * *

"We searched from top to bottom, John. Receiver's no good." Bobby shrugged helplessly. "Signal's gone."

This was a dangerous time. He could see it in John Winchester's eyes.

Dean lost.

"_I'll do it, Dad. It'll be cake…"_

Slaughtered somewhere. Eaten.

"_Bet they like young, fresh meat. Like me. Your old ass might be a little too tough for 'em."_

And Sam…

"_Either you come back with Dean alive and unhurt, Dad, or you don't come back at all." _

If he thought about it, if he acknowledged his fears, John would break.

John took a deep breath. Bobby watched him as John the father receded into the background.  
Dean needed John the hunter now.

"It's the right house, Singer. It is." John rumbled. _He's steady_, Bobby thought. "We both saw them take Dean inside. "

Caleb stood off to the side. All four of the dogs suddenly turned towards the house. Their floppy ears pricked up, their heads cocked to one side. Two of the hounds, Frisco and Boone, quietly stood up, padded over to the front door and sat down. The other two, Opie and Bubba, looked over their shoulders at Caleb. All four dogs whined, a soft, low sound.

It was loud enough. "Damn," Caleb whispered to himself.

John scowled. "What?"

"Think we better stay put for now." Caleb drawled. He nodded towards his dogs. "From the way the boys are acting, Dean never left. He's still here."

* * *

When he came out of the fog Dean drew in one huge breath of air, sharp like razor blades that made his chest and throat hitch.

A single tear ran down his right cheekbone. "Lambchop" darted in and licked up the tear track with her tongue. She put her hand underneath Dean's chin and held his head in place as she hungrily kissed his mouth.

Dean gagged when she pulled away. He spat on the floor, but that wasn't enough to get rid of the taste of his salty tears and rotten meat.

"Albert" leaned down, put her mouth right next to his ear. Her breath smelled of past meals she'd had. Meals that screamed and pleaded for their lives. "_My_ best day._ Meat_," she whispered.

"You BITCH!" Dean grated out. "I'll kill you! Kill every last fuckin' one of you---"

A fingernail lazily trailed down Dean's long bare back. He flinched. Their hands were cold, the nails, sharp.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, lovely boy," "Tallulah" purred.

"Such a beauty," "Minnie" cooed. "Do you have family, pretty? Do you?"

"Get your damn hands off me," Dean snarled roughly. They laughed as he struggled. Laughed and ran their hands through his short spiky hair. He was weak, muscles all stretched and blown, and they all knew it. The pain in his right arm came in waves, red and throbbing, threatened to carry him off.

"We hunt. And we eat." "Misty" rumbled to herself. "Only thing that matters. We use everything. _Everything._ Mother likes you. Likes that beautiful skin of yours. So we'll save it. Those big green eyes of yours. And that brain of yours, too." She idly traced her fingers across Dean's forehead.

Fugs weren't usually this _mouthy_. Not even the ones who could speak. Dean knew why they were telling him all this. Because they were arrogant bitches. Because none of it would make any difference.

Because he was a dead man.

"Got family and friends? Think they'll be sad and lonely after you're gone?" "Bugs" licked her lips slowly. "We'll take care of them. _Good_ care of them." She leaned forward and nipped at Dean's left earlobe.

"Minnie" laughed merrily. "Brains are good eating. We'll use what's inside. Get names, places from that soft grey matter. And then one of us will wear that pretty skin of yours. Make your dear, sweet family and friends think it's you. They'll be _soo _glad to see you. Draw them right in. Until it's too late."

"We have time. We_ use_ time. We can bend it. A little. Then bend it back." "Lambchop" got the back of "Minnie's" hand for that remark. "Minnie" snarled at her to be quiet. Dean wondered why.

The room gave a slow turn around Dean. He had the sensation of falling backwards out of his body. They still held him up, held onto him, but it wasn't so bad. The pain in his arm faded to a dull roar.

Dean blinked. There were twelve of the bitches in the room. _Twelve._

He realized he was seeing double.

_Drugged me,_ Dean thought dully. Pastor Jim's intel had _that_ part wrong, at least. They could kill with that poison of theirs, but they could also use it to make their victims weak, too.

_Tired. Need to rest, jus' for a lil' while, _Dean slurred to himself. The world drew away from him, faded into soft grey.

* * *

There was a time for everything. Of all people Jim Murphy knew that for a fact. A time to be born, a time to live, and a time to die. Everything in its own season. He accepted that, but just the same, sometimes he often wished for a different outcome, especially when people like the Winchesters were involved.

They did good work. They were good people. Pastor Jim did not question God's will, but sometimes, well, he had his doubts. He'd seen enough evil in the world. There was good, and he knew that, he'd seen it, but sometimes it seemed that good took a terrible beating.

He actually flinched when the phone in the hallway rang. He stared at it like it was something he'd never seen or heard before. That pit in his stomach got a little heavier.

It could be good news. Why not? Jim imagined picking up the phone, hearing John Winchester's gruff voice: "Got the job done, padre. We're all okay. Be there in a while."

Pastor Jim didn't _want _to hear the phone ring. Not at this time of night. God knows he'd made enough calls at night as the bearer of bad news.

Terrible, bad news.

He would have preferred hearing the rumble of the Impala's engine, the faint sound of that lively music Dean loved so much.

On the third ring Sam Winchester charged out of the spare bedroom he and Dean shared. The ceiling shook with the boy's heavy footsteps. Jim expected Sam to rush downstairs, anxious and eager to hear the news.

Sam didn't. Instead he went the opposite direction. Towards the bathroom.

"I don't have to tell him, John," Pastor Jim said quietly, moments later. He stood there listening to the sounds of retching and sobbing coming from the second floor bathroom. "Samuel already knows."

* * *

_**Next chapter will be posted on Sunday. **_


	7. is who gets eaten and who gets to eat

_**Chapter 7 - … is who eats eaten and who gets to eat…**_

_**A/N: **_It's Sunday. Almost forgot to post this. You guys have really made me feel good with the reviews for this story. Thank you all! Chapter title taken from _A Little Priest_ by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_)

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own John, Dean, Sam, Bobby, Pastor Jim or Caleb. Damn.

* * *

"Can't find my shirt," Dean muttered to himself. He wasn't so sure about any of this. His head felt too light, like it was a helium balloon. It bobbed here and there at the end of his neck, bumped against his chest and shoulders, and his right arm felt funny. He stood there bare-chested and barefoot in his worn, faded blue jeans, the ones he felt comfortable in, even though there were holes in the knees.

"You have to get dressed for dinner, kiddo," Dad said. He stood in the doorway and watched his two sons with what seemed to be genuine affection. The skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. "Can't leave until you do."

Sammy was excited. He flew around the room in his underwear, grabbed up his pants, t shirt and jacket.

"We have time. We use time," Sammy sang to himself. "We can bend it. A little. Then bend it back." Dean rolled his eyes half-heartedly. It was some girly song Sam had heard on the radio, and he was gonna run it into the ground, like always.

Dean swayed on his feet a little as he looked around. Pastor Jim's place. Yeah. Okay. Nothing to worry about.

"…we use time…we can bend time…"

Dean shook his head to clear it. "Damn, Sammy," he growled to his brother. "Enough already."

Sam paid him absolutely no attention. Dean just stood there, looking at all the stuff spread out on his bed. All different kinds of straps, black and brown leather. Some of the cuffs were black metal, some of them were silver. Dean didn't like any of them. He couldn't choose which one.

Dad smiled again. "Come on, bud. I'll help you with that." Dad stepped over to the bed and picked up a brown leather cuff. It was about three inches wide, with a buckle on one end and silver grommets on the other, lined with slightly yellowed sheepskin. Dean blinked at the small dark red spots splattered across the leather. He quirked an eyebrow at John.

"Paint?"

"Blood," Dad said with a warm smile.

"Oh." Dean nodded. Dad took Dean's right hand and carefully buckled the cuff around Dean's wrist. Dean let his arm fall to his side. It fit just right and the sheepskin really did feel soft against his skin. He didn't feel like going out to dinner. Felt like he was coming down with something. A cold, maybe. But if Dad had plans for tonight, Dean would go along. No sense in being a freaking buzz kill.

Dad put the other cuff on Dean's left wrist. The chain came next.

Dean blinked.

Dad's hair grew out long and blonde, and his skin became pale and lean. Hazel eyes turned to light grey, and Dean just stood there as John's image snapped back into view like a rubber band stretched too tight.

Something was wrong.

"Dad," Dean said softly. Felt like he was gonna hurl.

John carefully threaded the chain through the rings on the cuffs, and when he was done he stepped back, looked at Dean up and down. "You look good, Ace. You're a keeper."

Dean swayed on his feet.

"Oh wait, one more thing," John said, and he reached inside his jacket pocket and took out this big shiny red apple.

Dean blinked again.

"Open wide, son," John rumbled. Dean opened his mouth and bit into the apple as John pushed it against his mouth. It was a very juicy apple and Dean didn't _want_ to let go, so he didn't.

"There," John said, "Now you're dressed for dinner."

John leaned forward and patted the side of Dean's face. As soon as his fingers grazed Dean's cheek everything changed. The apple faded into thin air, along with John and Sammy and the spare bedroom.

Dean was confused.

"Such a sweet morsel," "Minnie" cooed softly. She lifted up Dean's left wrist with the cuff on it, lifted it up high enough so that Dean could stare at it. He blinked owlishly. "Wrap you up tight, beauty. Fix it so you won't bruise. Much."

_Damned considerate of you bitches,_ Dean thought dazedly, and he let the darkness take him again.

* * *

John looked suspiciously at the smear of oil on Bobby's thumb. "What is that?"

"Anise oil," Bobby huffed. He held the silver flask in one hand and smeared the oil on the space between John's eyes in the form of a cross. "Help you to refocus."

"What?"

"Change your attitude. Open your mind to what's not ordinarily seen, you idjit."

"Oh." John didn't seem to mind Bobby's tone. John sniffed. "Smells like licorice."

Bobby nodded. "So it does." Bobby anointed Caleb next, and himself last.

John nodded towards the dogs. "They ready?" Frisco and Boone, Opie and Bubba stood by the door, waiting patiently.

Caleb grinned. "Oh, yeah. Frisco and Boone take point. Opie and Bubba will bring up the rear. Keep your eye on 'em. Anything fugly around, my boys will let you know. They'll find Dean, John. I wouldn't worry about that."

Bobby slipped the flask back into his vest pocket. "One more thing. I put that anise oil on your third eye. It's called the 'Eye of Wisdom' or the 'eye of knowledge'. These critters pull any tricks like cloaking themselves, we ought to be able to see right through 'em. Watch the edge of your vision. They might try to hide there."

"Hell they will," John said roughly. He hefted his shotgun.

_Nothing's going to happen to you. Or Dean. Not while I'm around._

Caleb walked over to the front door and pushed it open. Frisco moved in first, padding softly, his head down slightly, staring intently. Boone, Bubba and Opie followed.

John had Caleb and Bobby's six. He wasn't a praying man, since it often seemed that no one was listening, but John felt that a prayer this time wouldn't hurt.

_God, please, let this be one promise that I can keep. _

* * *

Sometimes they used one of the long hooks set lower in the wall.

This time they hung him from one of the hooks in the ceiling. He was stretched out then, almost on tiptoe, until the soles of his feet cramped up and his calves ached and trembled from fatigue.

The Handmaiden Mother came by to look in on him. She lovingly stroked Dean's flat, bare stomach with her fingers.

He didn't even blink.

"Nice," she purred. "Lean meat."

Amara walked around the wooden table a few feet away. She smiled as she ran her fingers over curved blades, butcher knives and scalpels. Two large white enamel trays sat on another wooden table nearby, and that claw-foot bathtub over there was half filled with ice.

"Be careful when you prepare this one," the Mother said sternly."The rest are just food. This pretty one is special. You may start first with him, then the others. Half an hour."

Amara nodded silently.

The Mother put her hand underneath Dean's chin. He stared back at her blankly, his eyelids half closed, drowsy, his face calm and peaceful.

"Such a beautiful boy."

She turned and walked out of the room. Amara was her slightly smaller shadow.

Dean stared into space until the lock on the door clicked in place. Then he blinked.

_This pretty one is special._

Dean huffed out a sarcastic laugh. _Well, aren't I one lucky son-of-a-bitch?_

Dean stood there shackled, up on tiptoe, as the feeling came back into his body. He rested his forehead against his arms, fought down the nausea that rose up in his throat.

The cold air in the room raised goosebumps on his freckled skin. One deep breath, and that sharp pain in his side told him one of his ribs was cracked, maybe two.

Well. _Hell._ Nobody ever said this gig was gonna be easy.

Thirty minutes.

Twenty five now.

God, that stretch in his legs and calves hurt like a bitch. The feeling in his legs finally came back.

Overall news wasn't good. He was a train wreck, pure and simple, but there was one bright spot, and Dean nearly laughed out loud. He still had his knife, strapped to his right leg. He could feel the weight of the blade.

Dean moved his right shoulder, and a bolt of pain shot down his spine. His knees wobbled, and large black spots bloomed on the edge of his vision.

_Shit._

Roaring in his ears and Dean struggled with it.

_No. No! _

He breathed, took deep breaths.

_Don't pass out, you hear me? Don't pass out…_

It was no good. He could feel himself drifting away. Twenty minutes to go…

_Told…Sammy…I'd come back…Dad…_

* * *

_**Next chapter will be posted Tuesday.**_


	8. Ladies And Their Sensitivities

_**A/N:**_ I was in a really weird place when I wrote this. Ye have been warned. As I've said before, this is not an AU, but we can certainly agree to disagree on that. I'd like to think that as close as they are, Sam and Dean have a special connection. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it. Chapter title is from the song of the same name from Sweeney Todd, by Stephen Sondheim.

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own Supernatural. This is for fun, not profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 8 - Ladies And Their Sensitivities**_

It was time.

Amara locked the door behind her with the key that hung from the cord around her neck. It was better not to have any distractions while she worked. Some of her weaker-willed sisters had been known to come around begging for a finger, a toe, a liver or some other sweetbreads or body part. It had happened before.

The boy was so still and so quiet as he hung there. That spray of freckles across his nose was even more pronounced by the paleness of his skin.

Amara's legs and muscles creaked slightly as she grew six inches taller. She was now face to face with him. There was always the chance that he was faking, or that he would regain consciousness right in the middle of the process.

She'd noticed that this one kept drifting in and out, and she wanted to make sure. Amara ran her fingers down the side of the boy's face. She took his left earlobe between her thumb and forefinger, dug her nails in and pinched hard enough to draw blood.

She studied him carefully, searching for some physical reaction to her touch.

There was none. Not even a flicker of those long dark eyelashes.

Good.

She licked his blood off her fingertips.

"Such a beautiful son of Eve," Amara whispered to herself. Those full, almost delicate lips, that patrician nose. His eyelashes were longer than that of many of her sisters. He was a boy trying to be a man, and she brushed her sensitive fingertips over the light stubble along his jawline.

His skin would outlast the rest of him. He'd be put to good use. Amara had lost count of the many times she had done this, butchered and prepared a special skin to be used for hunting. The fleshy parts inside would be equally divided among the maidens for the annual feast. The boy's brain would be saved, preserved until later, and the one chosen to wear his skin would savor the taste and gain the information needed to track down, trick and deceive his family and friends. They'd nourish the Handmaidens soon enough.

It all depended on how well Amara prepared his handsome hide. It was precision work. None of the others wanted the job. None of the others wanted to be trained for it either.

Most of her sisters loved the rule of tooth and claw too much. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. It was enough to pretend to be human most of the year, to watch and observe which humans were choice enough to be hunted for food and sport, or to be put on the dinner table. Amara had a steady hand, as did her mother before her. She was honored to be able to do the work. She'd never liked hunting, had never been hot-blooded enough to fully embrace it.

She always liked to be able to look the special ones in the face, examine them more closely. She always told herself that it was just to see how and where to make the cuts. And this one, well he was a beauty, with the face of a fallen angel. Amara knew about angels. She'd seen pictures of them in books.

Once she'd butchered a holy man, a priest, and he called down the wrath of God upon her as she made the first incision in his skin. He was food, so she didn't have to be careful with his hide.

His prayers went unanswered. Later Amara amused herself by idly leafing through some of the old books in his luggage. She studied the faces of the angels in those books. She'd seen a few humans whose beauty matched those drawings.

Like this one.

She'd have to dust him again, of course, give him an overdose of the sleeping powder the hunting party dosed him with out in the woods. That way he wouldn't wake up screaming when she made the first cut. Screaming stretched the skin around the mouth and eyes.

That was something Amara preferred to avoid if at all possible.

Amara turned towards the wooden tables with the enamel tubs filled with ice and her cutting instruments. She was already visualizing where to make the first cut, in the middle of the boy's long, lean back, and which knife she would use to start off with.

From behind she heard the boy take a breath. Nothing to worry about.

The chains clinked together.

_That_ was worrisome.

Something heavy slammed down on both shoulders. She was jerked backwards. Her breath was cut off as the boy wrapped his legs around her neck, scissored his feet together tight underneath her jaw.

Amara laughed, a low throaty sound, and the boy grunted as he tightened his grip. Every muscle in his body stood out with the effort to hold her. He gave a sharp twist to the left, and Amara's neck broke with a loud cracking sound.

It didn't matter. None of this did. She smiled to herself, a spiky, jagged grin. He didn't have any silver.

Amara drew out her claws as her head hung at that awkward, unnatural angle. She took a moment to heal herself, hissing as the bones in her neck mended back together.

She was on overdrive now; her claws were slick with yellow poison. She reached backwards and began to rake and slash at the boy's bare feet and legs.

He bit down the scream that tried to push itself out of his throat. Amara's grin got even wider. She'd make him beg loud and long before it was over. He'd pay for touching her like that.

The most important part of his skin was the head and shoulders. She could piece together the rest after she was done with him.

Amara hissed and spat as she clawed his bare feet. He was only human. He'd release her any moment now, and then the real fun would begin.

Her eyes bulged slightly. Instead of releasing her, his grip tightened even more.

Not possible…

She felt a jerk from behind as he shifted position. She canted her head to the right.

His right hand was free. The leather cuff was still around his wrist. He was reaching for something. He pulled at the ragged hem of those worn blue jeans of his.

Amara snarled, tried to snap at the fingers with her teeth, but they were out of her reach, on the other side of his leg. She shortened the bones and muscles in her neck, lowered her mouth to his ankle and nipped and bit at his ankle. She striped his right arm repeatedly. That leather cuff around his wrist darkened even more with his blood.

His hands shook, and his fingers trembled, proof that her poison was getting to him

She couldn't believe it when she saw the knife in his hand.

* * *

Sam moaned again, low and deep in his throat like a trapped animal. Pastor Jim hugged the boy as tightly as he dared. The salt ring was in place around the bed.

It had been moments before when the boy staggered back into the second floor hallway, calling his brother's name in a hollow, tearful voice that made Jim's heart ache. Jim was at the top of the stairs when something made him look down. Sam's eyes rolled up into his head.

And those marks appeared on his bare feet.

After he'd gotten Sam settled down on the bed, and laid the salt ring down on the floor, the prayer of protection was the first thing to come to mind.

"From the snares of the devil, deliver us, O Lord."

Jim held the boy, and Sam clung to him like a drowning swimmer.

"That Thy Church may serve Thee in peace and liberty, we beseech Thee to hear us."

The boy's skin was too warm, feverish. Jim sprinkled holy water over him, watched as another red welt appeared on Sam's feet.

"Thou may crush down all enemies of Thy Church, we beseech Thee to hear us."

Sam shuddered as the water splashed against his skin. His insteps were red with scratches.

"Samuel?" Jim whispered.

Sam blinked. "It's Dean."

"Dean's doing this to you?"

Sam shook his head, his eyes dull with fever. "No. She is. Fighting her." He dug his head even closer into the older man's chest. Sam flinched as another, longer stripe appeared down his right arm.

"Can you tell me where Dean is?" Jim asked gently.

"Can't tell," Sam breathed harshly. "He's pissed." Amazingly enough, Sam grinned a little. "He's gonna kick her ass now."

Despite everything, Pastor Jim had to smile at that. He could imagine. Dean had the vocabulary of a jarhead at the best of times. Like father, like son. The boy tried to restrain himself whenever he came to Blue Earth, but somehow he always managed to slip up.

Sam closed his eyes, and his breathing became so rapid and so shallow that Jim froze in place. This wasn't an attack of some sort, or a possession. Sam was connected to Dean in some way, right now. Pastor Jim had heard of such things before, and when it came to Sam and Dean, he wasn't that surprised.

Sam shuddered again. The fever that flooded him, that nearly baked Pastor Jim's skin, left. Completely, as sudden as it had arrived. It was a startling feeling.

_Stay calm_, Jim told himself_. Stay calm for the boy._ "Samuel?"

"Dean." Sam's lungs hitched as he took another deep ragged breath. "He got loose. They're all around him now."

Sam opened his eyes. "Told he didn't want me to see this. Told me to go away."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Yep, another cliffie. What, I'm evil, remember? Next chapter will be posted on Thursday.


	9. A dark and hungry god

**Chapter 9 …a dark and hungry god…**

**A/N: **Chapter title taken from _The Ballad of Sweeney Todd_, by Stephen Sondheim. Longer author's note at the end of this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own 'em. Damn.

* * *

The Handmaiden Mother smiled thinly to herself. He was just a boy, after all. Just another nameless human boy. If he had family that cared about him, he wouldn't be out all alone in the woods in the first place. Hadn't even been that much trouble when her pack pulled him down in the woods. Just a human boy.

Just _meat_.

That was all he was, of course. All he would ever be. After this she would look at his cured skin and laugh that she could ever have been that stupid to think he was anything else. She would sit at the banquet table later on that night and feast on his flesh and his sweetbreads. And she would keep those moss green eyes of his as a keepsake, in a glass jar.

Amara was dependable enough; she would put the eyes aside without being told.

The Mother sat in her red velvet chair, staring out the window, and she smiled to herself as the moon retreated back to its original position in the night sky. The time reversal rippled throughout the entire house. It was one of many houses they had throughout the land, and the humans were none the wiser. They had some resources available to them, but they usually chose not to use them unless it was connected to the feast. It was a simple matter to bend time, this night of all nights.

After all, it took time to properly tenderize meat.

Her group of Handmaidens was the largest Clan, the ones who had survived the longest. There were smaller groups around, even lone Handmaidens who hunted by themselves. Collectively they were the Handmaidens of Ba'al Zebûb, after all. Feared for thousands of years, responsible for the deaths of entire towns when the hunger moved them.

Ba'al Zebûb had enemies, of course. The Christian god, for one. Various other entities, for another. She'd heard the prophecy when she was young hundreds of years ago, that a green eyed boy with the face of an angel would be responsible for the destruction of her Clan. He was an avenging angel, and he would rise up among them armed only with a silver knife.

It was all nonsense.

She felt that way, knew it in her soul, right up until the moment when the first piercing death shriek cut through the air.

* * *

Dean killed.

He killed the one in the room with him. The one with the keys. Got clawed pretty good for his trouble, on his right arm. Legs and both feet.

Maybe he got a little too carried away. She didn't seem to get the message that she was dead, so he kept stabbing her until she did. One moment she was struggling, the next minute she was a tangle of yellow bones and dust and ash.

Dean stared dully at the knife in his hand. His skin burned and tingled as the poison sunk into his skin. He moved towards the door and with the first few steps had to look down to see if he was still on his feet. Had a kind of a weird, floaty feeling, like he was walking above the floor, not on it.

He was out of his head from the poison. Sure, that was it. Probably die from it. His right arm didn't hurt so much anymore. So the cure for a dislocated shoulder was fugly posion. Who knew?

Well, hell, did he want to live forever?

Dean didn't expect to. Ever since he saw his mother on the ceiling of Sam's nursery, Dean knew things were fucked up. He'd be lucky if he lived to be twenty. Thirty? He couldn't even think that far ahead. He thought only as far ahead as the next job, the next hunt.

And Dad. And Sam. It was hard to concentrate on anything other than that red roaring sound in his head. He remembered the way the Mother's fingers touched his skin. He could smell hunger. And fear.

Didn't matter if they ripped him to pieces.

"We'll use your skin, beauty. Find your family."

_Not gonna let 'em use me like that…_

Funny. He could hear Sam now as he stepped out into the hall. Dean wanted to say goodbye.

_I'm sorry, bro', I really am. Sorry…_

Maybe it was the fire kindling underneath his skin. Smoldering embers, just waiting for the right time to spark and consume all of him, 'cause he really didn't think he was gonna get out of here alive and in one piece.

He was out in the hall when the others walked up on him. The knife in his hand was like a part of him now.

_Dean…_

_Sammy, go 'way…go…don't wan' you to see this…_

All six charged at him all at once. Dean lashed out with his knife hand, moving in a circle. They drew back from him. They could smell the silver. He picked out the one nearest to him and nailed her with the knife, slashed her good, the tip of the silver blade going deep underneath her skin. She fell apart almost immediately, in a cloud of dust and bone fragments.

It didn't take much for the bitches to die. Dean laughed. It was all kinda funny somehow.

One of the others hissed and tried to move with him, so she could get in close and slash him with her claws. Dean tracked her, seemed to know where she was going to be before she even knew it. She crumbled into dust just as he got slashed up his back from behind, five long stripes that should have burned like hellfire. It didn't. The fire baking underneath his skin loosened Dean's limbs. He turned smoothly in that direction, like a cat turning inside its skin, slashing out with the knife.

She died just as quick as the other one did. The one next to her was too slow when she backed up.

He remembered catching the sixth one by her hair.

When he came back to himself Dean stood in a circle of yellowed brittle bones and piles of ash on the floor around him. He stared dully at the knife in his hand. He was having a little trouble catching his breath. He huffed, tried to sneeze that grey ash out of his nose.

The others ran off. He remembered that much. They looked startled when he turned, looked at them and laughed.

They weren't used to food that fought back.

Dean swayed a little on his feet. Everything was coming at him in waves. His brain felt like it was pushing against his skull, trying to get out. He was _everywhere_, heard _everything_. Dogs barking. Gunshots. Screaming in the distance.

Bobby's voice. Caleb's.

Dad's.

"_Chapter and verse, Ace," John growled, a lifetime ago. "Let me hear it."_

"_Once I'm inside, I get loose, and start killing as many sonsabitches as I possibly can."_

_Way wrong answer. Dad frowned. "Dean?"_

"_Okay, okay, only if I have to. My main objective is to get to the hostages and secure them."_

Dad nodded, satisfied. Dean nodded back, even though there was no one else around.

…_get to the hostages and secure them._

That was what Dad wanted him to do.

* * *

The Handmaiden Mother flung open the door, unwilling to believe what she was hearing. Shrieking and hissing from the first floor below. She took a deep breath, smelled men, guns, and dogs.

And silver.

Dean Winchester stood in the hallway in front of her. He was covered almost from head to toe in grey ash and blood and slash marks, but not all of the blood was his. Those moss green eyes of his fairly sparkled when he saw her. His grip on the pearl handle of his knife tightened ever so slightly. His head was tilted to the side, and his eyes never left her face.

Dean smirked. And her light grey eyes widened.

Bitch was toast, and she knew it.

* * *

"How many?" John said roughly. The hallway was shrewn with bones and blood and ash.

Bobby shrugged as he stepped over a pile of brittle bones. "We got five. Counting the one in that room and the one down the hall, and these out here, I'd say eight more out here. Thirteen total."

"Dean." John said softly. His grip tightened on his shotgun. Bobby didn't miss the gesture.

Caleb's dogs ranged up and down the hallway, from room to room. At the end of the hallway Caleb stepped out from the last room, lowered his rifle. "Clear."

Frisco padded over to the stairwell and stood there, staring upward, closely followed by Opie, Bubba and Boone.

"John? Bobby? Dean's upstairs."

* * *

_My God,_ John thought, when he looked at his eldest son.

Dean stood swaying on his feet as he shielded the former captives with his own body. There were twelve people to be used in the feast. Dean made thirteen.

An unlucky number for some.

There were men, and women, four young children, ages six months to twelve. White, black, and brown. The Handmaidens had unpredictable tastes as well, and apparently those rumors about old people being tough and unappetizing weren't true. Bobby counted three people over the age of forty.

Some of the captives actually sobbed when they heard the hunters' heavy footsteps. Some cringed at the sound of Caleb's hounds.

Frisco barked. Once. _He's here, boss. We got 'im._

"Damn," Caleb whispered softly. Bobby huffed in disbelief.

Dean looked feral.

His eyes were too bright. His skin was flushed, rosy with fever beneath that coating of fine grey ash. Blood and scratches all over, and he stared at John, Caleb and Bobby with no hint of recognition in those wild green eyes. The corners of Dean's full mouth twitched upwards into a wolfish grin. His eyes narrowed and his grip on the knife tightened when John Winchester stepped forward.

For a wild moment Bobby actually considered shooting the boy.

* * *

It was Dad. Looked like Dad, but…

_Have to get dressed for dinner, kiddo._

"Dean? Son?" Dean's head bobbled slowly at the sound of John's voice.

_Can't leave until you do._ John's face ran like melted wax. Dean blinked. His head hurt. Everything was too hot, too bright.

"Nuh…no…" Dean whispered raggedly. "Not again. Not again…."

John lowered his shotgun to his side. "Dean? It's me. It's Dad."

"Don't…don't…believe you…"

"It's okay, son. You can stand down now. It's over."

Dean didn't move. John managed a weak smile. "It's time to go home now. You know, Sammy told me not to come back unless you did."

"S-Sammy?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "He did. He blames me for this. Says I should have played bait, not you. It's over, Dean. It's over. You did good, son. You really did."

"Dad," Dean whispered. He didn't feel real anymore. He was burning up. His skin was on fire, bits and pieces of him floating away into the air, and nausea churned his insides up. None of that mattered.

Dad was here. It was all good.

The knife was too heavy now. Dean couldn't hold it anymore. He didn't want to. He dropped the knife and stumbled forward into John's open arms.

His skin blackened and burned when Dad touched his body, his face.

Caleb found a blanket somewhere, wrapped it around Dean. Dean could feel the heat curl up inside him, saw the heat shimmer film over his eyes.

_Won't do any good. 'm burning up,_ Dean thought dully. _Just like Mom…_

He wanted to tell them that, but he couldn't.

Wanted to walk out on his own two feet, but he couldn't do that either. Dad carried him most of the way. Dean hated being carried like that, but he was too tired to bitch about it. His throat felt funny and his mouth was numb. He laid his head on John's shoulder, and they were outside in the dark after a time.

Dean watched the flames roil and coalesce on the surface of his skin, and bits and chunks of himself broke apart and drifted away. He watched the flames grow higher, watched sparks and glowing ash slowly rise into the air above him, until everything blurred together, and he realized that what was floating away into the dark sky above was him, his body, mind and soul, and he just didn't give a fuck anymore. He was frozen in place, and he was burning.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ There is one more chapter to this story, or a chapter and a short epilogue, depending on where I make the chapter breaks. You guys don't know how much I appreciate the reaction this twisted little tale of mine has gotten. Thank you all!

Next chapter will be posted on Sunday.


	10. boys and their fancies

_**Chapter 10 – Boys and their fancies**_

_**A/N #1: **_Chapter title taken from _Not While I'm Around,_ by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_).

_**A/N #2:**_ This is an extra chapter to this story, written quickly and unbeta'd. Dean has a decision to make about living or dying. Yeah. The small stuff. Speaking of Sam, well he cusses quite a lot and there's that bit at the end of the chapter that everybody wanted to see. You guys are evil. That's why I love you.

Repeat after me: this is _not_ a death fic.

Okay. We're good. We can go now.

_**Disclaimer:**_ This is for entertainment purposes only, not profit.

* * *

John and Bobby did what they could. They doused Dean with two gallon jugs of holy water, followed by two more jugs, from head to toe, of holy water mixed with an infusion of rosemary and vervain herb. They rubbed it all into his skin, washed him clean of the ash and blood and excess poison on his bruised and slashed skin.

Too little, too late.

The fever inside Dean smoldered too deeply to be put out. It flared up again, in his skin, in the air all around him, no matter what Dad and Bobby did. Dean turned his face up towards the night sky, watched the glowing orange embers of his self float skyward. The amulet Sam gave him that Christmas when they were young kids glowed warm and sunbright against Dean's skin. It wouldn't burn, or melt.

At least, Dean hoped it wouldn't. Sam could wear it after he was gone.

Bobby and John worked on him, and Dean barely felt the ground beneath his feet. He couldn't understand why Dad and Bobby didn't catch fire when they touched him.

"Hospital," Bobby mouthed through the heat shimmer.

Dean stared at him dully, swayed on his feet as Dad held him upright from behind.

"… thirty minutes away..."

Everything was in slow motion now. Dean understood. He was moving from this plane of being to the next.

Bobby knew the truth of it before John did. Dean could see it in Bobby's eyes, through that wavering shimmer of warmth that blazed in the air all around him. They didn't know enough about the poison the Handmaidens used, hadn't expected Dean to get slashed _this_ bad.

_Better me than Dad_. _My fault. Gotta pay for my mistake. _Dean held onto that thought, even as Dad and Bobby wrapped him up in more blankets and placed him in the front bench of the Impala like he was a fragile, useless thing. It was the last thing Dean ever wanted. Wasn't Dad's fault. He hadn't twisted Dean's arm. Bobby and Dad wouldn't have to do any of this at all if Dean had followed orders like he was supposed to. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right.

He didn't want to be a burden to anybody.

_Wanna say goodbye, _Dean thought dully, and the fever in his body lessened. Just a little.

* * *

Sam knew. He knew before he opened his eyes. Pastor Jim had gone downstairs for something, and when Sam opened his eyes he saw Dean sitting on the other bed.

Dean was here, and yet he really wasn't. He was bare-chested and barefoot. Sam's eye slid over the fine grey ash that covered his brother's body, the slash marks and the scratches. The bloody jeans. Sam's expression soured and Dean flinched.

He hadn't wanted to appear to Sam looking like this.

Sam's eyes narrowed as he sat up on the other bed. "You're not coming back."

"Sammy, don't be mad at me, huh?"

"I_ told_ Dad. I _told _him. Come back with you alive and well or don't come back at all. It was a half-assed plan, and you _know_ it, Dean."

"I volunteered for this. It's my fault that I'm…"

"Dying? Or dead?" Sam snapped. He leaned forward and Dean just sat there, dejected, head slightly bowed. "Which is it, _huh_? And you thought that coming back to say goodbye would make me feel better?" Sam huffed in disbelief. "Well, I got news for you, Dean. It doesn't make me feel better. It doesn't. Only thing that would make me feel better would be seeing you walk through that door. Alive."

Dean sat there, silent.

"You're gonna leave me here with Dad." It was a simple statement of fact.

"Dad'll be here. You'll do fine. You both will. Don't start with me about Dad, Sammy," Dean said darkly. He raised his head and looked his brother in the eye.

"Why the fuck shouldn't I?"

"Watch the mouth there, dude."

"_Why?_ You won't be around after this. When did _you _start caring? _Asshole_."

"I screwed up," Dean mumbled. "Didn't do what Dad told me to do." He looked down at the floor again, at his feet. _Damn._ Bitch really did a number on him down there.

"So? So _what_? Dad should've played bait, not you. What the hell kind of father lets his kids live like this anyway?"

"Sam…"

"I mean it, Dean. We live on the road, go from town to town. It was bad enough before, when Dad was the only one hunting, but now he's got you out there too." There was something, a tremor in Sam's voice that made Dean finally look up.

_Damn._ It was those puppy eyes of Sam's, something he used when he wanted his way about something. Usually it was a put-on, and they both knew it, but Dean always caved anyway. This time, though, it was real. There was desperation and rage and over all that, sadness. Sam's face was streaked with tears. "Don't do this to me, Dean. Don't. You can't die. You can't."

"Sammy, I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do!" Sam made a motion forward, then stopped himself. There was a part of him that was dead calm, that watched all of this coolly and remotely. _Don't touch him,_ that part said. _Don't. You touch him and he'll disappear. You know the lore._

Dean shook his head. _No._

"_Bullshit! That's bullshit!_ You _have _a choice, Dean. You_ always_ have a choice! You think you failed Dad, and now you have to pay the price? Dude, how fucked up is _that_?" Sam's voice softened. "Don't leave me, Dean. I'm begging you. Don't. Please. Please."

Dean was becoming transparent now. He sat there bruised and bloodied, dusted with grey ash from the tips of his hair to the soles of his feet, and Sam could see straight through him, see the beige wallpaper on the wall behind him.

Sam cursed and Sam raged. He used every curse word he knew, and there were quite a lot of them, in Latin, ancient Sumerian, and English. He pleaded and he begged, and after a while Dean finally faded into thin air.

* * *

The air rumbled in Dean's ears when he finally came back to himself. It was the girl's engine, steady and dependable, the whisper of the road underneath her tires. Seemed like he'd spent all his life on the road. Be a fitting place to end it.

"Dean? Stay with me, son. Stay with me."

"D-Dad?"

The skin around John's eyes crinkled, like they always did when he smiled. It was a weak smile. Dean barely felt Dad's hand on his shoulder. It was a distant weight, nothing to hold him down.

Or keep him here.

"Dad…" Dean whispered hoarsely. "…didn't mean…to fuck…everything up…"

"You didn't. Dean, you didn't."

"Gave me an order. Didn't…follow through…"

John's eyes widened at the tone of Dean's voice. He'd heard that before, that same tired resignation in other men's voices. In other countries, across the seas.

Dean was giving up. His son was giving up. John knew that Dean sometimes got some weird ideas into that head of his. John never could figure out from where. John knew things bothered Dean more than the kid let on. That smart ass act was all an act. It was a shield, to keep him from being damaged more than he already was.

John pulled over on the shoulder of the road. He lightly ran his hand over Dean's forehead. It was like touching a hot oven; heat radiated out from the kid in waves. St. Mary's Hospital was twenty minutes out. The smart play would have been to put his lead foot down on the gas, break every damn speed and traffic law in existence to get Dean to the ER.

They'd arrive in twenty minutes. Dean would be gone by then. Dead.

John didn't know how he knew that, he just did.

John held Dean in his arms, rested his cheek against the top of Dean's head.

"I…see… mom…"

_No. _

"…she…looks…sad…"

"It's not your time, Ace. It's not. You gotta work with me on this one, kiddo. You got to."

"'m tired."

"I know you are. I know." John hugged him even closer. "Don't leave me alone with Sammy. He's a handful as it is." John chuckled. "I'm …I'm not in Sam's good books right now. If you don't come home with me alive and well there'll be hell to pay."

_Mary, please…_

"Mom's...mad at me…" Dean said faintly. "Sammy...too."

"They're not mad at you, Dean. They're sad. Folks say and do weird things when they're sad. We don't wanna lose you. I know your mom is glad to see you, but she's sad too."

"..dun't wanna…be…burden…'fraid I'll screw up….get you killed…" Dean sighed wearily. A sound like that had no business coming from an eighteen year old. "…better…this…way…"

_Please, babe, help me. Don't let them take our boy…_

"You got the wrong idea, Dean." _Stay calm, you bastard. Stay calm._"You think I'm perfect. Some kind of big damn hero? I'm not. Son, I…I screw up all the time. I try to keep the mistakes to zero when I hunt. That's because I want to come back to you and Sam when it's over and done. You boys are one of the two best things I've ever done in life. The other best thing I ever did was to marry your mom." John stared down at Dean, watched Dean blink slowly as he breathed in and out. Dean's eyes were dulled with fever; he stared blankly at something --- _someone_ --- John couldn't see.

_Mary, if you can hear me, help me… _

Dean gave another hitching sigh that seemed to drain him completely. He closed his eyes.

_Please…_

"I couldn't…I _can't_ live without you, Dean. Sammy can't either. Your mother doesn't want you to join her. If she did, she wouldn't look so sad," John rumbled softly. "Sam and I need you, kiddo. We do. Stay here with us, Dean. Stay. I love you, son. I do."

_Hello, sweetie. I love you. _

_Mom,_ Dean breathed.

* * *

Sam knew Pastor Jim was watching him. Had been for the past three days now. Pastor Jim talked to Sam after he hung up the phone from John, but in Sam's mind that didn't let John off the hook. Nothing would or could.

Sam ate breakfast silently and after he was finished he cleaned up the kitchen, put everything back in its proper place. Today was the day. Sam went to John's room upstairs, and he found what he needed in John's closet.

Two hours later John Winchester pulled up in front of the rectory.

Dean Winchester rode shotgun.

Sam didn't miss one detail. Not one.

Even from a distance Dean looked washed out, tired. That t shirt, jacket and faded blue jeans he wore hung loose and baggy on him in all the wrong places. He wore dark sunglasses. Sam couldn't see his eyes, and that made him feel uneasy somehow.

Dean didn't move as John got out. John had his game face on: calm, inscrutable.

So did Sam.

John rounded the front of the Impala, opened the passenger side door and helped Dean out. Dean stood there leaning heavily on his father, wobbling on his feet, unsteady and weak.

Fourteen year old Sam Winchester sat on Jim Murphy's front steps, cradling a modified sawed off shotgun loaded with rock salt.

* * *

_**Plenty of Hurt!Dean and Winchester angst in the next chapter, which will be posted on Wednesday. After that, possibly an epilogue. I really appreciate all the reviews and alerts. Thanks!**_


	11. nothing's gonna harm you, darling

_**A/N:**_ How many of you would like to see at least a couple more chapters in which Sam and John and the rest of our merry crew rally around our hurt boy? Oh-kay, you convinced me. You two folks can put your hands down now. Just kidding! Written quickly and unbeta'd, I'm departing from my original plan with this fic. Chapter title is from _Not While I'm Around _by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_).

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own 'em, darn it. The boys belong to Eric Kripke. This is solely for entertainment purposes, not profit. I may be twisted but I'm not stupid.

* * *

_**Chapter 12 – nothing's gonna harm you, darlin'**_

The corners of Dean's mouth twitched up in a weak grin. "Hey, Samantha," Dean whispered hoarsely.

"Hey, jerk." Sam's grin was wide and warm; it even reached his eyes. All warmth in his face and body language went completely cold as he turned his head slightly and dropped his gaze on John Winchester like a gunsight. "Dad." Sam's eyes narrowed to slits.

"Sammy," John's tone was flat, cool. So far Sam hadn't lifted the shotgun, or pointed it directly at him. Good. One of the first things John taught his boys was this: if you point a gun at someone, be sure you're willing to pull the trigger.

Thing was, John wasn't so sure that Sam wasn't willing to do just that. At this very moment his youngest son was unreadable. And the only reason Sam wasn't pointing the damn shotgun at John right now was leaning heavily against John.

Dean.

Weakened, pale Dean.

_Either you come back with Dean alive and well, Dad, or you don't bother to come back at all._

Dean was alive, but he wasn't exactly the picture of health. His head bobbled like it weighed too much for him. Those dark sunglasses he wore couldn't hide the way his brow furrowed up. He tried to rest his chin on top of John's shoulder as he looked away, away from Sam, at a point somewhere over to the left. Dean hated this. Hated hospitals, hated being fussed over, hated the way he looked and felt now. Sam could tell.

Sam's hands loosened slightly around the stock of the sawed off, and John didn't miss that, either.

"D-Dad?" Dean breathed raggedly, in and out, in and out, like he'd forgotten how, and was trying to remember the trick to it. He blinked a little too rapidly, then: "Gonna…gonna hurl…"

He folded down to the ground slowly, on his knees. John steadied him, went with him, as Dean clawed frantically, clumsily at his sunglasses. Dean dry retched, and as he did the only thing that he thought about was how fucking pathetic this whole thing was, and how damned stupid he must look. This was the way the whole damn day had gone. Got wheeled out of the damn hospital in a damn wheel chair, for God's sake. Now he was on his knees in the dirt in Pastor Jim's front yard.

He'd never felt more worthless or helpless.

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He hated this almost as much as he hated himself right about now.

"Sam," John looked up sternly. "We can discuss this later, after I get Dean inside."

Sam didn't move at first. He stared at Dean.

Dean wanted to crawl away and hide. Sam knew that, too.

"Samuel?" Pastor Jim said quietly, from behind. "I appreciated your help moving the beds around. Could you get the clean sheets for me out of the closet?" There was a moment in which everyone seemed to freeze in place. "Samuel?"

Sam stood up. Slowly. He glared at John, and John glared right back. Sam turned and went back inside the house as Pastor Jim came down the front steps.

"Good to have you home, son," Jim Murphy said softly as he kneeled beside the young man and his father. Dean reached out blindly for Jim's left arm. The pastor allowed Dean to grip his forearm and steady himself. "You can have my room on the first floor. Bathroom's right around the corner, and so is the kitchen. That way you won't have to climb stairs until you feel better."

Those high cheekbones of Dean's were even higher, more pronounced. He was thin, the thinnest Pastor Jim had ever seen. He knew that Dean hated hospitals, hated hospital food with a passion. He wasn't a good patient, tolerated doctors and nursing staff for only so long, until he could gather up enough strength and check himself out.

Or sneak out on his own. That had happened a couple times that Pastor Jim knew of.

"Didn't want you…to go to this much trouble...for me…" Dean gasped. His knees nearly buckled on him as he tried to rise up. Pastor Jim and John waited until he was steady on his feet.

"Nonsense, Dean. It's no trouble at all."

Dad and Pastor Jim were nice enough about it, but they had to literally carry him up the front stairs. Friggin' pathetic.

* * *

The bedroom downstairs was big enough for the two twin beds from upstairs. Sam quietly made up the beds. Dean's bed first, the one in the middle of the room.

Dean refused to go near it. "I just…I just wanna sit down, that's all. Don't wanna lie down. 'm not sleepy." The _damn it_ at the end of the sentence was a given. Dean lowered himself rather shakily into the overstuffed easy chair in the hallway. John smiled. Just a little.

He went into the kitchen and came back a moment later with a small glass of Seven-Up with the bubbles stirred out of it. Dean stared warily at the glass in John's hand. "It'll settle your stomach, kiddo."

Dean made a face. "Oh."

Sam glanced into the hallway then. Tension was in the air, slight now, but building_. Don't make me have to order you to drink this, Ace, please,_ John prayed silently. That would set Sam off for sure.

John breathed a sigh of relief as Dean took the glass. Dean's fingers shook slightly. John pretended not to notice.

"John," Pastor Jim said serenely. "Can I have a word with you?"

"Sure. You gonna be okay, bud?"

Dean nodded silently.

"Okay. I'll be outside if you need me."

Best to get this over with now, Jim thought, before Sam and John were at each other's throats. They restrained themselves now, only because Dean wasn't feeling well. The two, the youngest and the father, were more like than they would ever admit. Dean could be a little prickly at times, but he imitated John's tough guy persona. Dean adored them both. If it had been anyone else, Jim would've thought that Dean was being manipulative, deliberately playing up his weakness to stop John and Sam from squaring off against each other. That wasn't it. Not at all.

John and Jim glanced back into the hallway at Dean before they stepped out on the porch. Dean just sat there, with the glass in his hand, staring into space, while Sam made the other bed.

Pastor Jim said quietly, "Handmaiden poison in those amounts has a 100 percent mortality rate. As far as I can tell, Dean is the only living person to ever survive the kind of slashing he took."

John frowned. "And?"

"We don't know what effect that will have on him."

John leaned against the railing."He wanted to walk out of the hospital on his own, Jim. Had to order him to sit in that wheelchair."

Pastor Jim sighed. "You and your boys can stay here as long as it takes, John. You know that. In the meantime, let me do a little more research into the effects of the poison, see what I can dig up. I didn't have time before, because it was such short notice, with the feast being held that night. I feel…I feel responsible for Dean's condition."

John huffed. "You? I was told to bring him back alive and well, remember? Sammy and I are going to have it out. You know that. Sooner or later. I'll try to keep the commotion and the casualities down to a minimum."

Jim smiled a little. "He had rock salt in that sawed-off. Your shotgun from your closet."

"Huh. Figures. Did he put it back?"

"I don't think so."

"Huh. That figures too."

"My point is that I would like to pray over Dean, at the very least. The hospital attended to his physical needs, brought down the fever…"

"And you want to attend to the spiritual."

"Yes. Yes, I would." Pastor Jim shrugged. "Just to be on the safe side."

"I don't have a problem with that. Don't think Dean will, either. He thinks the world of you, padre."

Jim laughed. He turned and glanced back into the house through the screen door. Dean still sat right where he was before, still staring into the room, his head slightly lowered, probably watching Sam make the beds.

Dean wasn't looking at Sam.

* * *

Dean stared at "Minnie", and "Minnie" stared back at him.

She sat on the floor, just inside the bedroom. The Handmaiden looked surprisingly healthy, considering that the last time Dean saw her she was a pile of grey ash and bone. She smiled at him, preened under his attention, and behind her Sam Winchester moved around the room as though he didn't even know she was there.

Dean blinked. Couldn't be. Fucking _couldn't _be. Bitch didn't have a mark on her.

"I killed you," Dean whispered softly.

She laughed. "That you did, beauty. That you did. You killed us, but my sisters and I changed you." She ran her fingers through her long silver blonde hair as she cast a backward glance at Sam. "Your younger brother." When she turned back around, she showed her sharp teeth in a toothy grin. "He'll make a fine, tender morsel for you, pretty."

"Leave me the hell alone. Leave _him_ the fuck alone, " Dean growled. "Or ---"

"Or you'll what? Kill me? You already did, remember? Oh, it's rare that one such as you practically falls right in our laps. You volunteered to play bait. You wanted this, deep down inside. You want this, but a part of you doesn't. That's why you tried to die. You're one of us now, and it won't take long. And from now on, when _you_ feast, _we_ feast."

Sam turned around, frowning. "Dean?"

"Minnie" laughed. "Go ahead, Dean. Tell your darling baby brother what kind of a monster you are now. Tell him what kind of creature dear old dad brought back instead."

"Shut up,' Dean whispered.

"Tell him, pretty. Tell him…" "Minnie" purred.

"I said shut the hell up---" Dean's eyes widened. Sam was right in the same space as the bitch, and Dean couldn't move, couldn't even open his mouth to warn him---

Sam walked through her and didn't see a thing. "Minnie" disappeared in the blink of an eye.

"Dean? Hey! Dude!" Sam had him by the shoulders, a solid grip. Dean felt the glass slip out of his suddenly numb fingers, heard it when it broke into pieces on the worn hardwood floor, spilled soda and broken glass all over his brown work boots.

…_so pretty…_

"Dean, you okay? What's wrong?"

_Tell him, my beauty. Tell him…_

"I'm fine, Sam. Nothin's wrong."

* * *

Four hours later, Dean sat in Pastor Jim's kitchen and peered blearily at the liquid in the bowl on the table in front of him. It was thin. Yellow and watery. A few hated vegetables bobbed around on the surface. Little slivers of…was that_ chicken_? Dean leaned forward, and stopped himself with a visible jerk. His vision blurred, his eyes refused to focus that close in. He sat back in the chair with a thump, and the muscles of his back started bitching about the change in position immediately. _Crap._

John and Sam sat at the table, and from what Dean could see they had bowls of soup, too, but their bowls didn't look like baby puke. Their bowls were loaded down with big juicy chunks of chicken and vegetables.

"Burger?" Dean croaked hopefully.

"I know you'd probably like a hamburger instead," Pastor Jim explained as he sat down with his bowl.

"If you can keep this down," John rumbled, "I'll fix you a sandwich later."

Dean shook his head. "I'm…'m not hungry."

… _make a fine, tender morsel for you, pretty…_

John frowned. "Dean?"

"'m not."

…_from now on, when you feast, we feast… _

* * *

Six hours after that it was time to turn in. Sam's bitchface came out in full force. He claimed the twin bed by the wall, stood there in grey sweatpants and a white t shirt, obviously enjoying the fact that John had nowhere to sleep. "You sleep in here, Dad, you're sleeping on the floor."

Dean lay curled up on his bed. His eyes were closed. He was so pale the freckles over his nose stood out like brown sand scattered over a white tablecloth. He had pretended he was asleep at first. He was drifting away now. His breathing was slow, steady, deepening with every passing moment.

John nodded. "All right, Sam. I've slept worse places. It's no big deal." He was too damn casual about it. Too nonchalant. It was a big deal, and they both knew it. John was picking his fights, deliberately chosing not to engage his youngest, letting Sam expend all his anger and energy. Maybe the boy would run out before too long.

And pigs fly. Each and every damn day.

Dean woke up screaming later on that same night.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ This next story arc will deal with Dean's (possible) recovery, physical and mental; also Sam's vengeance on John, and John's response to said vengeance. How far I go depends on the kind of reviews I get, so don't be shy, people. Holla at me. You've been fantastic so far. As you can see, there's no shame in my game. I'm a review junkie, and you guys have well and truly fed my habit. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! Oops, forgot to add this next part: the next chapter will be posted on Sunday.


	12. the gourmets among us

_**A/N:**_ Good grief! Well, the folks have spoken. 100 reviews! Bows deeply and reverently. Thank you! Chapter title taken from the song _God, That's Good!_ By Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_)

_**Disclaimer:**_ This is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 12 – The gourmets among us **_

They pulled and they grabbed at him.

"Nuh…noo…"

It was worse than before.

"Lea' me alone…get your fuckin' hands off me---"

Lost his damn knife this time.

They ran their fingers through his hair, stroked his trembling body like he was a long lost lover, found again.

"Won't be long now, sweet boy," "Tallulah" whispered.

"Dean? Son, it's okay, it's all right --"

Someone held him down from behind, pinned his arms to his sides, but Dean thrashed around anyway, for all the good it did. He couldn't see anything but pale, lean skin, light grey eyes and blonde hair.

"Son, you gotta wake up—"

"Dean? Dean!"

Dad and Sam, they couldn't be here, shouldn't be here, not now. It wasn't safe, not anymore.

"…g-guhhh… g-get away fr-from m-me…g-get away---"

"Dean, I want you to wake up right now," John barked sharply as he tightened his grip. "Dean, wake up!"

It was an order, and Dean obeyed. His eyes blinked open as he slid from one reality to the next, no grogginess, just crystal clarity, and he could still hear the bitches laughing inside his head. Being awake was just as bad as being asleep.

Dad held onto him from behind, cradled him in his arms like he was still human, like Dean was still his eldest son, and if Dad only knew, if he and Sam both only knew, they'd break out the silver blades and put an end to him right then and there.

Dean would've given anything not to see that worried look on Sam's face. Sam's bitchface would come later, as sure as the sun rising in the morning. Sam wouldn't let it go, wouldn't drop it, and sooner or later everything between him and Dad was going to blow up. Another argument was a sure bet, a lead pipe clinch.

"It's okay, Dean. It's all right---"

Dean sat upright, slumped over in Dad's arms, the side of his head against John's shoulder. His heart pounded against his ribcage like it wanted fucking out in the worst way. Dean shivered and shook. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't steady his muscles.

He wasn't four years old, and John couldn't lie to him anymore. Dad whispered that it was okay, Dean was all right, only he wasn't, and it wasn't okay. Wouldn't be okay, never again.

Dean knew better. Meat was all around him, and his stomach growled in response.

God, he was so hungry.

* * *

Hours later Dean sat at Pastor Jim's kitchen table, and he tried not to wobble back and forth in his chair. The sunlight hurt his eyes. He felt too sharp, too tight in all the wrong places. His head ached, and his throat was dry and sore. He wore a light grey t shirt and jeans and he tried not to shiver. It was a warm summer morning, temps in the seventies already, but he was cold. He wanted to slip on his heavy leather coat, but that would have been a sure sign to Dad that something was wrong.

John's eyes narrowed as he studied how pale his eldest was, how unsteady Dean was on his feet. John didn't miss any of that, but he couldn't see "Minnie".

Dean saw her, though. Felt her. She pressed into him from behind, laughing, hissing into the shell of his ear. He tried not to flinch as she ran her cold fingers over the top of his shoulders. She licked at his neck with her long forked tongue, made kissing noises at John.

Dean stared at the bowl in front of him. Breakfast was that watery looking god-awful chicken soup water again. He could smell it. Warm water was all it was, like Dad or Pastor Jim had dunked a chicken in there, quick in and out.

Dad stood there with this spoon in his hand. "Dean," he said slowly, "you have to eat."

There it was again. That low note of concern, that tone that Dean always hated whenever it was directed towards him. It was okay when Dad spoke that way about Sam. Or some scared shitless civilian. Or anybody else. But not him. Never Dean.

Dean shook his head, slowly, carefully. His mouth felt funny and he had to think about each word as he said it. "'m not hungry."

"Minnie" growled, low and deep in his ear. That was something she did _not_ want to hear.

John sighed. He pushed the spoon over the worn tabletop at Dean. Scrape of metal against wood, and the sound was so loud it hurt Dean's ears. He stared down at the spoon, and that was when he got the idea.

He wanted to speak the words, but he couldn't. "Minnie" laughed as she put her hand over his throat. No pressure, she just laid her hand there, like so, and shut him up completely.

_Kill me…_Dean pleaded silently with his eyes. _Please, Dad, kill me…._

"Minnie" made a clucking sound. "No, sweetness." She passed her other hand over Dean's eyes, wiped away the look.

John didn't notice a thing.

_I can't ask Dad_, Dean thought to himself. _I can't. Wouldn't be right to put this on him._

He'd have to find a way to keep his strength up. So he could do the job himself. Plenty of things he could use. A knife. A spoon with the edge sharpened. Forget cutting his wrists. That was for friggin' amateurs. A deep cut in the inside of his elbow, so long and so deep God himself couldn't stop the bleeding.

He'd have to eat. He'd _have_ to. Even if it wasn't what he _really _wanted.

Dean lifted his head again, watched the pulse at the side of John's neck. Imagined the taste of John's skin, faint spicy aftershave, leather and gunpowder. He'd lick and nip at John's skin with his teeth, before he took a bite.

Especially if it wasn't what hereally _wanted._

Dean could handle this himself. That was only right. Only fair.

He had to eat. Just a little. Dad would take him back to the hospital, and what would happen then? They'd hook him up to an IV, or forcefeed him.

Worse still, what was to stop Dad from calling up one of his old Marine buddies, that Baloche dude, the one they got the antibiotics and prescription pain killers from? Forget the damn hospital, they could tie him down to the bed right here in Pastor Jim's house, insert the IV, no fuss, no problem.

Dean's hands shook as he picked up the spoon, dipped it into the bowl. He put the spoon to his lips and almost gagged, but he swallowed the broth and dipped the spoon in again.

He ate two bowls of that chicken broth, two whole friggin' bowls of that nasty crap. Dean didn't want to admit it, but it did make him feel better. His muscles stopped jittering and jerking so much. He felt more comfortable in his own skin. Afterwards Dad gave him a bottle of water, room temperature, told Dean that he was probably dehydrated and he had to make _that_ disappear, too.

So Dean did.

Dad smiled a little.

"Minnie" did too.

* * *

Sam sat there by the pond, watched the dragonflies zip through the air. He picked up a pebble and threw it onto the pond. He didn't even bother to try to skip it across the surface of the water. His fingers shook too much for that.

Dean was alive, but he wasn't well. Probably wouldn't ever be the same ever again. He'd never seen his big brother like that before, hated seeing Dean weak and helpless.

Because of Dad.

All Dad cared about was the hunt. Dean was the brawn. Sam was the brains. That was all. And now that Dean had somehow managed to survive the Handmaidens_ and_ the hospital, now John was acting all paternal, all fake and fatherly, when he _knew_ it was his fault, knew Dean was the way he was because John screwed up.

Sam sat there, and he waited. The rage and sadness built up inside him. His face was wet, and he knew it wasn't from sweat. He would wait, until his grief and anger almost choked him, until he couldn't sit still anymore.

* * *

That ache in his lower back finally warned Pastor Jim that he'd been sitting in front of the computer for way too long. He pushed the chair away from the computer desk and winced as his spine cracked rather loudly as he stood up. Ah, well. Time for a break.

He'd been on line most of the morning, contacting other hunters, some of whom happened to be clergy. He had only one promising lead: Elias Bishop up in Freeburg, Maine, who'd heard of a possible survivor of Handmaiden poison. Pastor Jim didn't mention Dean Winchester, of course; he was just making an inquiry. Elias was steady, dependable; when he said he'd email the information back as soon as he found it Pastor Jim had no doubt that he would.

The house was quiet. A little _too_ quiet, with Winchesters around.

Pastor Jim went to the kitchen for a glass of water. There were clean dishes in the rack; a coffee mug, two plates, and several forks and spoons and a soup bowl. Jim smiled a little. John and Dean. Apparently John had finally convinced his stubborn eldest son to eat something.

Dean's bedroom was right down the hall from the kitchen, and the sound of snoring told Pastor Jim that someone was in there. Someone was.

Dean Winchester lay sprawled out on his bed, with a Hot Rod magazine tented on his chest and two water bottles, one empty, one half full, on the nightstand nearby. Dean looked at peace, a far cry from the disoriented, confused young man who'd woken up screaming hours before.

This was good. Jim hoped it would get better.

Pastor Jim stepped out onto his front porch moments later. Over in the driveway John was underneath the Impala's hood, changing sparkplugs, from the look of it.

Bobby Singer pulled up in one of his trucks, a battered medium blue pick-up truck with an engine growl that rivaled the Impala's rumble, at the same time Sam Winchester walked around from the back of the rectory.

Crazy didn't even begin to cover what happened next.

* * *

_Don't need Dad to fix me something to eat_, Dean thought to himself. He twisted the dial on the radio, found the right station, then cranked it all the way up.

_**Got the devil in you  
Got the devil in me**_

No prob, dude. I can fix it myself.

_**Play a dangerous tune  
Come on and dance with thee  
**_  
AC/DC. Rock Your Heart Out. _Sweet._

Dean danced across the kitchen floor in his bare feet. He couldn't understand what everyone had been so damn worried about.

He felt fine.

The thick meat patties frying in the skillet filled the sunlit kitchen with the wonderful smell of seasoned meat. It smelled so damn good, and he was_ soo_ hungry.

He closed his eyes as he tilted his head back and scented the air. Enough of that thin ass chicken soup water. That freakin' useless clear soda.

He was really sorry he put everyone to so much trouble. It was okay. He was fine.

_**Got the devil in you**_

Through the screen door Dean glimpsed Pastor Jim's body laying out on the back porch, with that wooden axe sticking out of the middle of his chest like a lever.

_**Got the devil in me**_

Old dude really did put up a hell of a fight.

_**Play a dangerous tune**_

But that was okay. Dean was fine.

Dean put his back to the back door and played air guitar, and as he did he caught sight of John Winchester lying dead in the hallway, his neck tilted at an unnatural, broken angle.

_**Come on and dance with thee**_

Dad was the one Dean had been worried about all along, and the old dude didn't put up much of a fight.

Huh. Dean felt disappointed somehow.

_**You got to throw your fists up**_

Now Sam was the surprise.

_**Shout your mouth out**_

Sam hadn't been that easy to take down. Dad seemed shocked, startled when Dean walked up on him. He was easy. Sam fought just as hard as Pastor Jim did, if not harder.

_**Beat the walls down**_

Sam lay curled up on his side on top of Pastor Jim's wooden dining table. He looked like he was asleep.

_**Got to freak out**_

He lay there naked, covered up to his chin by Pastor Jim's now bloody white tablecloth. Dean didn't look too closely at the blood on the floor and the tablecloth. Or the bloody knives in the sink.

Fresh meat. Just a taste. That was all he wanted. All he really needed. Who'd ever notice? Who'd ever…

_No. Oh, God, no ---_

"You don't have the appetite for this, sweet thing,""Minnie" purred. "Not yet, anyway."

The meat in the skillet was from Sam.

"No," Dean moaned out loud.

"It's just a dream, pretty. Just a dream. You can do anything you want to in your dreams." "Minnie" rubbed up against Dean's legs like an oversized cat. She slunk around Dean on all fours as he stood in the middle of the kitchen, transfixed by the blood and the bodies, and the smell of the meat cooking in the fryer on the stove.

Dean's stomach growled.

"Go on, Dean. It's just dreams."

Dean's stomach growled even louder. "Minnie" raised up on two legs. "What would it hurt? Who's going to know? I won't tell. You know I won't. It's only a dream, lovely boy." She ran her fingers down the side of Dean's face. "No one can blame you for what you do in your dreams."

Only a dream….couldn't hurt, right? His stomach growled again, and Dean thought of the meat on the stove. Didn't think about where it came from, thought about one of those thick patties in a bun, with mustard, pickles and lettuce. His stomach felt like his throat had been cut.

It was just a dream, after all. He could have a taste. Just a taste. What was the harm in that?

Dean ate.

* * *

It happened quick. Sam didn't break stride. He walked up to John and the next thing Bobby and Pastor Jim heard the crack of Sam's knuckles against his father's jaw.

Bobby turned around frowning. "What the hell?"

John fell back against the side of the Impala. Sam moved in on him again, and John gathered himself, pushed up with his legs, lowered his head and came in low as he grabbed Sam around the waist. They hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

John was on top.

Pastor Jim started forward, and Bobby reached out and grabbed his arm. "Padre," Bobby said quietly. "Don't. Let 'em sort this out. This has been a long time coming."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ I want to thank again everyone who read and reviewed, lurked, and put this story on their Author/Story Alerts. I'm having a ball writing this story and you guys are one of the main reasons why! The next chapter will be posted Saturday.


	13. hearing the music that nobody hears

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title taken from _The Ballad of Sweeney Todd_, by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_).

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own the characters of Supernatural. Eric Kripke does. This is for entertainment purposes only, not profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 13 - hearing the music that nobody hears**_

"Get off me! Get the hell off me, you bastard!"

Sam uncoiled and swung at John with his left as John pushed himself away from the boy. John felt an odd sense of pride as he blocked the blow and backpedaled. He'd taught his boys to be ambidextrous and Sam obviously learned that lesson well.

John couldn't glance around, didn't dare take his eyes off Sam for a second, but so far they were alone out there in that part of the yard. Bobby wasn't interfering, and neither was Pastor Jim.

Sam was up on his feet in an instant, half crouched, arms raised.

"Sam? Sam! I don't wanna fight you---"

God help him, that wasn't _exactly_ true. It was exactly the right thing to say, to get Sam to lose his cool. No other sparring match they'd ever had could compare to this one. Sam was out for John's blood.

Sam growled, wordless and rageful, as he moved in. He and John circled each other each at first. Sam tried to back John up against the Impala with a flurry of blows, so he could pin the older man against the side of the car and plummel him some more. John avoided that trap without even looking behind him. He studied his son as Sam backed away.

Sam came after him again, and instead of trying to evade him, John surprised him by standing his ground. They stood toe to toe for several moments. John blocked most of the blows, but Sam got in a few good licks too. He still had enough presence of mind to protect himself, and the blows he'd landed were pretty decent ones. John rolled with the punches, blocked most of them as he moved to the back and side, and tagged Sam a couple of good hard ones, made him pay dearly for allowing himself to get within range. Sam was growing more and more out of control, more frustrated.

They separated, and John knew he had the boy when Sam closed on him again. Sam jabbed. John blocked, then rocked his head back with an uppercut that made Sam stumble. John didn't give Sam time to recover. He stepped in and placed several more blows to Sam's face and upper body.

Youth and skill doesn't mean shit compared to age and treachery. John kicked Sam in his left calf. Sam's knees buckled, his legs threatened to slip out from under him. John side stepped and swept Sam's legs out from under him.

Sam hit the ground heavily on his back, but John knew at once he wasn't going to stay there. He scrambled back up, and John nailed him again.

Sam hit the ground on his ass, but he still scrambled up and forward. His knees wobbled. He was wide open now.

_Won't stay down,_ John thought, and there it was again, that somehow fucked up feeling of pride. John's fist connected solidly with Sam's jaw. Sam's eyes rolled white, and his knees turned to rubber. He hit the ground. Hard.

John stood there staring down at his youngest son. He forced himself to breathe through the adrenaline surge. He had a busted lip by the feel of it. At least one black eye. He'd bruise up pretty good, be sore as hell tomorrow morrow.

As bad as John felt, Sam looked worse.

Lately the arguments they'd been having had gotten more vocal, about petty stuff. Not this time. This was all about Dean. That was a better excuse than some brand X mouthwash John bought just to save money, or some crappy motel room with a busted toilet and roaches.

_Mary,_ John thought as he turned away, towards the house. _This isn't the kind of life I wanted for our boys. But I won't let them be victims, either. I hope you forgive me for that._

"John---" Bobby started forward towards Sam as John walked past him. The look on Pastor Jim's face was quietly sympathetic.

"Leave Sam be, Bobby." Bobby stopped in his tracks. "Don't touch him. Let him get awake up and get up on his own."

"John," Pastor Jim said softly, slowly. "Sam's hurt."

"That makes two of us, Jim." John huffed tiredly. "This isn't a democracy. I got to look on in Dean."

* * *

Dean dreamed his stomach was full.

He ate and he ate, and it helped that Sam and Pastor Jim looked like they were asleep, with their eyes closed. Even Dad looked more at peace than he ever had in years.

Dean ate until he couldn't eat anymore, and his stomach was full and heavy. He put his back to the kitchen wall and slid down slowly to the floor.

His head filled with sounds. Wasn't the radio. It wasn't anything he'd ever heard before. His blood buzzed and roared in his ears.

And then there was "Minnie" and the other bitches: "Misty", "Tallulah", "Albert", "Lambchop", and "Bugs".

"When you feast, we feast, pretty one." They touched him all over, and Dean didn't mind. They sung to him, beautiful female voices, light and airy. Golden like sunlight. Their skin was smooth and smelled of light floral perfume.

"You did so well, beauty…"

"Sam…Dad…." Dean muttered dully. "I didn't…I couldn't have…"

"Of course you didn't, dear boy. It's only dreams. Just dreams." "Minnie" leaned in and pressed her lips against Dean's mouth. "You can eat what you want in your dreams. It's your world in here. We won't tell."

"…dun't…dun't want Sam to know 'bout this…"

"Of course you don't. That's why you've blocked him out of your head, isn't it?" "Lambchop" giggled.

Albert was the most quiet one of the bunch. Dean thought she didn't like him. Dean really didn't care.

They kissed him all over. Dean relaxed. His green eye color faded to an exquisite shade of light grey.

"You'll be our prince at first, then our king," "Minnie" whispered into his skin. She licked her tongue out at his freckles. "See how good this feels?"

"…yesss..." Dean moaned.

There was a part of Dean, dimly conscious, that knew what was really happening, that recognized that the six handmaidens really smelled like blood and fear and murder, torn flesh instead of sweet perfume. That part of Dean knew what they really looked and sounded like, knew that they hissed and screeched instead.

That part of Dean was poisoned, weak. The handmaidens pushed it further down underneath his skin with every touch, every kiss.

They took turns whispering, their mouths pressed against his skin. Their voices slid one into the other, until Dean couldn't tell which one from the other. He didn't want them to stop.

"You can help us rebuild, pretty. "

"But first you have to get your strength back."

"You have to eat in the real world."

"We'll help you. We don't mind."

"You can eat in your sleep, and eat when you're awake, until you won't be able to tell the difference anymore…"

"The others are coming now, Dean. You have to wake up, now," "Minnie " whispered. "Dean?" Her voice deepened. She sounded just like Dad now. "Son? Wake up."

Dean opened his eyes. Green again.

He could play this game. He could.

Kitchen. He was still in the kitchen, still sitting on the floor, with his back against the kitchen counter. His throat felt funny. The sunlight coming in from the kitchen window overhead hurt his eyes. Dean huffed to himself, annoyed. He was dehydrated. Dad would get after him about that.

No cooked meat. No blood. But there was Dad, kneeling beside him, and Pastor Jim. And there was Bobby. They all had those major league looks of concern on their faces, and for a moment Dean wondered why. Wondered if he'd done or said something in front of them that he shouldn't have, something that would spoil the game, make him lose.

_They won't understand the game we're playing_, "Minnie" whispered inside Dean's head. _But you do, don't you?_

Dean nodded.

_Such a sweet boy. _

"Dean?" John rumbled. "You okay? What are you doing on the kitchen floor?"

"Came in here for a drink of water." Dean shrugged. "Got tired. Needed to sit down for a minute."

"Oh." John didn't look convinced. Dean didn't miss the way John stared at his face, checking for blood, bumps or bruises. Dad's face was flushed. Dean blinked at the cuts and bruises. The skin around John's left eye was bruised and purple. His lips were swollen and cut.

"Dad? What?"

"Sam."

"Oh."

Bobby stood there frowning. He reached a hand into his right vest pocket, frowned even more, then pulled that hand out again. He leaned forward. "How you doin', kiddo?"

"Hey, Bobby," Dean croaked. "Sorry about your jacket. Dad told me the bitches burned it."

"No big deal. I buy 'em in bulk."

"Oh." Dean blinked.

"That was a joke, Dean. You sure you okay?"

Dean huffed. " 'm just tired." That was the truth, at least, not that he really cared. "And hungry."

* * *

Forty five minutes later Bobby Singer slipped his cell phone back into his vest pocket. Caleb was four hours out. The younger man had sounded shocked during the course of the conversation, but he didn't hesitate. Bobby called him, and Caleb was coming. Pastor Jim had already invited Bobby to stay for an early supper, so he had a ready made excuse to hang around. Whether the padre had invited him or not, Bobby wasn't going anywhere. John and Jim Murphy didn't know that yet.

Sam was somewhere around, licking his wounds no doubt, after the ass whumping his father had given him. Bobby knew he had to be careful about this. John Winchester was prickly even on his best day, but he couldn't ignore this. Bobby had concrete evidence in hand.

Bobby stared at the nameless little medallion in the palm of his hand. He carried it around with him all the time. Liked to think that habit was a whim, but he knew it was a precaution.

Sometimes, in this business, a simple thing like that could make the difference between living and dying.

The medallion was blessed, and it was gold, but the gold wasn't the reason it was so precious. It was a gift from a grateful Mormon family up in Utah, near Salt Lake City, couple of years ago. This particular gold medallion was like a canary in a coal mine, an early warning system, an alarm. It had a limited range, but even so it was pretty damned reliable. It had been in the past, and Bobby had no reason to think this time was any different.

The medallion was black now. It turned black and vibrated the moment Bobby got within five feet of Dean Winchester.

* * *

Next chapter will be posted sometime this week.


	14. retreat into the darkness

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title taken from _Ah, Miss_, by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_). Yes, I'm late with this. I apologize.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 14 - retreat to the darkness**_

Another bowl of that horrible chicken water. A little more meat and vegetables in there this time. He was sick of it. Sick of eating_ that_ when all around him was the kind of food he _really_ wanted to eat.

Dad, with that relieved look on his face. Pastor Jim. And Bobby.

Bobby, though…there was a vibration about him that Dean didn't quite recognize.

It didn't matter. None of it did.

Dean was good at hiding. Always had been, his whole life. It was easy. Easy to smile. Easy to pretend. He sat there in that sunlit kitchen surrounded by fools and he looked and acted the way they wanted him to look and act. He said the things they wanted to hear.

"I'm fine."

_No, I'm not. Dad, please ---_

"I feel better."

_Get away from me. I'm not safe._

"Minnie" and the others crowded all around him.

_We'll take what we need from them. Take it all, darling boy. Soon. Very soon now… _

They stroked his skin, whispered into his ears.

_We can travel the world. You'd like that, wouldn't you? _

Dean leaned into their touch.

_We'll never leave you. Not like your father does. We'll be with you always._

They filled him up with secret touches and slow lingering kisses and dark praise, and that small sane part of him was pushed down, fighting and cursing, even further beneath his skin.

_Not time yet, pretty. Not yet. We'll tell you when it's time. _

None of the others noticed a thing. _Stupid meat._

He was still hungry.

* * *

An hour later Pastor Jim stepped onto the front driveway, away from the house. "Dean's asleep in bed."

John scowled as he looked at the blackened coin in his hand. Bobby leaned against his trunk, carefully watching John's reaction. "Sam?"

"I haven't seen him around, John."

"So what are you telling me, Singer? This could be reacting to negative spiritual residue or something."

"If that was true it would be black all the time. I'm telling you that Dean needs help. He's damaged somehow." Bobby huffed. "Caleb's coming in. Should be here in another two hours."

"And then what?"

Bobby shrugged. "We see how bad off Dean is. And we do what we can to correct it."

"He's my son, he's not an _it_." John said tightly. His right hand curled into a fist.

"All right, John. _All right._" Bobby stood up. "You wanna hit me? Come on. _Hit me._ Let's get this out of the way. Right damn now. You're feelin' sorry for yourself, is that it? Well, that's too damn bad, 'cause I don't think Dean has that kind of time. That stuff Sam said, it stung the hell outta you. Okay, I get it. Get it out of your system so we can deal with what's happening to Dean."

John didn't move. "Well?" Bobby grated out.

"We'll have to confine him. In that spare room upstairs," John said in a low tone. "Tie him down to the bed, make sure he can't hurt anywbody."

"Elias Bishop is supposed to email me back. Says he had a line on a survivor of Handmaiden poison," Pastor Jim said softly, as though he was concerned that Dean could overhear. "Wouldn't hurt to email him back. I also have access to some rituals and prayers that might work in this case. Couldn't hurt."

John nodded. "All right. Thanks, Jim. We better get started."

* * *

Dean stirred in his sleep. He lay curled on his side in the bedroom around the corner from the kitchen.

Sam came in through the back kitchen door. He smelled like blood and golden sunlight, sadness and spent rage. After the fight with Dad Sam went to the pond out back and sat for a while. And now he was back.

Dean was glad Sam came back.

"Minnie" hissed at Sam, but Sam couldn't see or hear her. He couldn't see the others, either. They pressed down on Dean like he was a precious thing, one that couldn't be allowed to get away. He couldn't even open his eyes.

"Minnie" wouldn't let him.

Sam pulled that wooden chair in the room over to the bed. He was tired. Tired and sore and hurting.

"Think I look bad, you oughta see Dad, huh? Well, you probably already have," Sam whispered softly.

"Minnie" kissed Dean's ear. _It's just noise, dear. Meat makes noise. You know that. Don't listen to him._

"I tried, bro'. I did. Tried to kick Dad's ass. He walked away and I didn't, so I guess I wasn't very good at it." Sam sat there quiet and still for a moment, bruised, with his eyes blackened, his lip split.

_We should feast on him now,_ "Albert" hissed, and she snarled as "Minnie" struck her upside the head.

_Not now. Not yet._

Sam sighed. "What the hell kind of father wants his children to live this way, huh? You're his son, Dean. His eldest son." Sam leaned forward, and twined his fingers in Dean's right hand. Sam knew it was emo, knew Dean considered a gesture like that girly.

_Dude, holding hands? Hell no. Get off me, you perv._

Sam didn't care.

Dean's strong fingers were warm and pliable. His chest rose and fell in a steady motion.

The last bit of sanity buried deep within Dean got a little stronger from Sam's touch.

"We shouldn't have to live like this. Going from state to state, never even finishing up a school year anywhere, for God's sake. I'm leaving when I turn eighteen. I want you to come with me. Doesn't matter where. Just as long as we can be somewhere safe. We can be brothers like Mom wanted us to be, like we were meant to be."

_Sam, please…_

"Without Dad, you know? I know you think I hate him sometimes. I don't. I just don't…just don't see the point. All this just for someone I don't even remember? I'm sorry, dude, I know you get mad whenever I say that, but it's _true_. I don't remember Mom like you and Dad do. I like to hear you talk about her. I like the way your face relaxes and your eyes light up. She must have been really something, Dean. I wish I could remember her. But I can't. I don't."

_Sammy, I can hear you, but they won't let me talk to you…_

"You're all I've got. You raised me, took care of me." Sam took a deep breath as he blinked back the tears in his eyes.

_Gonna make me pretend, make me fake it until I can get the drop on you and Dad…_

"See…I keep thinking that one of these days you're not gonna come home, Dean. One of these days you're gonna just disappear on me. Get yourself killed in some small town or a forest or someplace, die all lost and alone."

_I don't wanna hurt you. I won't. _

"And for what? Mom wouldn't want that, no matter what happened to her. I know you pretend I'm the smart one. I'm not. Not like you. I just don't see the point in all of this. Dad brought you back, but you're sick."

_You gotta see this Sammy. You gotta. And then you have to get away from me…_

"And…I'm afraid, Dean, afraid that you'll never get any better. I couldn't take that, you know. I couldn't…"

_Look at me, Sam. Please, you got to. I'm not right. _

Dean opened his eyes.

_It's too soon, beauty. Too soon. You can't. You mustn't…_

Sam sat there frozen for a moment. Dean stared at Sam, unblinking.

Dean's bright green eyes were light grey.

"Minnie" and the others drew back from Dean then. As he sat up he shrugged them off as if they were lighter than air.

"D-Dean?" Sam stammered. He backed up. The chair hit the floor as he knocked it over. Sam never heard it.

"Hey, Sammy."

"Dude, what ---"

"Don't be afraid of me, Sam. I'm okay. It's just that…I'm so damned hungry…"

* * *

Next post will be Sunday.


	15. outside the sky waits, beckoning

_**A/N: **_Chapter title taken from _Green Finch and Linnet Bird_, by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_)

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 15 – outside the sky waits, beckoning**_

Dean almost laughed at that voice inside his head.

_He's your brother, you sick fuck._

It was scared, and mad, all at the same time.

_Don't you touch him, you hear me? Don't you dare ---_

Dean would have laughed, but the voice made his head hurt. It was hard to concentrate, hard to see. He couldn't hear the way his belly growled at him anymore. He was so hungry, and meat was right there in front of him.

Dean could smell it.

Dean could almost taste it.

But the voice kept right on talking away inside his skull, threatening him, raging at him. He really wanted to be able to dig his fingers in there and claw it right out, but he couldn't. The voice sounded just like him, sounded so afraid and so human.

Just like he was before. Just like meat.

He couldn't see Sam anymore. The next thing Dean knew he was walking, stumbling. The ground felt funny underneath his bare feet. It tickled. It was grass. It was grass, and he gradually realized that he was outside.

_They_ were outside. Sam walked alongside him. Sam leaned into Dean, took his weight on his shoulders.

Another step, and Dean stumbled a little because the ground was so uneven. The sun felt warm on his skin. He turned his head just enough to see behind him. Pastor Jim's house already seemed so far away. Dean scowled. He didn't really want to go back there. Plenty of meat was back there, but so was that lousy chicken soup water they fed him.

It was so much nicer out here.

"Sammy," Dean heard himself say. "How did we ---"

Sam shrugged. "Out the bedroom window. Had to haul ass 'cause I heard Dad and Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim coming back in the house."

_No. Oh God, no. Sammy, I ---_

"Thought I …told you to get away from me…"

Sam huffed. "Dude. Your eyes changed color. That all you got? You're not gonna hurt me, Dean, you're not."

Dean glanced down at his right hand and watched as his fingernails lengthened into silver sharp claws.

"Don't be too sure about that, little boy_,_"_ Minnie_ grumbled. She slunk on all fours through the underbrush a few feet away.

"You've been home all this time and you haven't hurt anybody yet." Sam tightened his grip on Dean's left wrist a little. "Wasn't gonna call Dad. He's the reason you're like this in the first place. We can figure this out, bro'. Between the two of us, we can. Not gonna give Dad the chance to screw this up any more than he already has."

"Oh." Dean looked around, blinking. They were all around, walking, ranging through the grass and the underbrush in a wide circle as both boys walked along. _Minnie, Lambchop, Tallulah, Bugs, Misty and Albert._

Only _Albert _looked happy.

Dean stumbled again. Sam leaned into him even more to steady him. "It's okay, dude. I gotcha. I know all about those Handmaidens and stuff. Read that stuff Bobby and Pastor Jim dug up. Nothing we can't handle."

Lambchop snickered. Dean shot her a dirty look and she moved away, out of reach. He looked down just as the nails of his right hand went back to normal. That bothered him at first, but it was okay.

He could always do that again when he had to.

There was something he wanted to tell Sam, something he thought Sam should know. Dean couldn't think of it right now. His stomach grumbled, almost as deep and low as the Impala's engine.

_Damn it, this isn't right. You damn well know it isn't…_

His head didn't hurt, but he did feel a little light-headed.

_He's not meat, you stupid prick. It's Sam. He's your brother..._

If only he could get that voice inside his head to shut the hell up.

"He's not enough," Misty frowned. "Not enough meat."

"The father, the priest and the other one," Bugs grumbled. "That was enough meat for everybody."

Albert ran her tongue over her jagged, razor sharp teeth and smirked. "Soon. We'll eat soon."

"We'll have to fight over who gets the largest piece," Tallulah moaned. "This one? Too small."

"I'll get the scraps," Lambchop snarled. "I always get the scraps. Make the pretty turn around. Make him go back---"

Minnie growled and crossed through the circle. She backhanded Lampchop and she finally shut up.

They all did.

Minnie walked up on Dean's left hand side. Sam didn't notice. Dean pretended not to.

"It's too soon for this, dear," she purred softly. "You know that, don't you? I know you're hungry, but we all must eat. It's nicer back at the house. Knives, and plates, and heat to cook with. We could invite the others to dinner, stay there for a while, gather up our strength and then leave."

_You lousy bitch…_

Minnie smirked. "That's not very nice, using language like that."

_What?_

"Oh, you really thought we couldn't hear you in there, Dean? You're the last bit of humanity this beautiful body of yours has. You're weak. We poisoned you. We'll see how long you last."

_You touch my brother, I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill all of you …_

"I'm so afraid right now." Minnie laughed. She rubbed up against the side of Dean's leg like an oversized cat. "You want to play, little boy, we'll play. See who ends up eating who."

_Son of a bitch…_

Minnie laughed as she bounded away into the grass.

"We can hole up," Sam said cheerfully. "Been thinking about this for days. Found a place that Dad doesn't know about. Got food there and everything. You'll like it, Dean. You will." Sam glanced up at Dean with such a happy smile on his face that it made Dean feel glad, and then sad for some reason. Dean smiled back.

He glanced down at the top of Sam's head, looked at his little brother's sturdy shoulders. Dean's mouth watered slightly.

"I, uh, got two duffels there. One for you, one for me. Snuck out some of your clothes and stuff. Shoes too." Sam glanced down at Dean's bare feet, and laughed. "Good thing I did, huh? Even got some money I saved up. For bus tickets and stuff. Stole the food from Pastor Jim." Sam frowned. "I'll pay him back, after we get somewhere safe. Dad might not like this, but I don't care."

"Okay, Sammy." Dean nodded.

It was really true. He was okay. For now.

One step after another. Dean cocked his head to one side, listened as that frantic voice of his scratched around inside, pushed up against the edges of his skull, looking for a weak spot in the bone.

It was nice being outside.

Dad thought he was sick, thought he was weak. That wasn't true.

After he and Sam had their walk, Dean figured he could go back to Pastor Jim's, show him and Dad and the rest exactly how weak he really was.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ I'm going to stop here 'cause I'm evil. But you knew that already, right? Next chapter will be posted Saturday.


	16. being close and being clever

**A/N:** Yep, I'm a little late with this. Chapter title taken from _Not While I'm Around_, by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_).

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.

* * *

**Chapter 16 – being close and being clever**

Dean saw how Sam was going to die later on that night.

Dean huddled inside his own skin, in the heavy, sick darkness, feeling cold, weak and useless, and he watched himself stalk and kill his younger brother.

Sam didn't run. He wouldn't. "Dean? Dude, what's wrong?"

Dean laughed, felt this deep, throaty chuckle rise up in his throat. "I love you, Sammy. You know that, don't you?"

"What?" Sam backed up with this wide-eyed, bewildered look on his face.

"This way, you'll never leave me. Never." Dean crouched there, and Sam's eyes widened even more. Dean felt his teeth sharpen, his fingernails lengthen into claws. "It's better this way, you know?"

Sam fought when Dean moved on him, but it was no contest. Dean was bigger, taller, heavier. Sam fought as best he could. He would have whipped anyone else's ass, but this was Dean.

Soon Sam laid there dead in the grass, staring sightlessly up into the night sky.

"There now, Sammy, it's okay. It's all right," Dean said. He stroked the side of Sam's face, gently closed Sam's eyes.

Then he lowered his head, tore Sam's shirt open, and began to feed.

_You're the last bit of humanity this beautiful body of yours has,_ Minnie whispered.

Dean sobbed. _Don't listen to her._

_You're weak. We poisoned you. _

_Stop bawling like a bitch, dumb ass. Don't listen to her. Don't ---_

_We'll see how long you last._

Dean came back to himself, watched his other self laugh and talk to Sam, like everything was just so damn normal, and Dean felt like screaming. Screaming might have been too damn girly for him, but he felt like doing it anyway. He wanted Sam to run, to get away, but that wouldn't have worked. Dean couldn't open his mouth and get the words out, and even if he could, none of that would have worked.

And it might make things worse.

For one thing, Sam wouldn't have believed him. Sammy was stubborn; he had it stuck in his head to get Dean as far away from John as fast as he possibly could. Sam wouldn't leave Dean. No fucking way, no fucking how.

For another, even if Sam did run, this Dean would chase him. Catch him.

Kill him.

He listened to the thoughts the other Dean had, and the hell of it was that they really weren't that much different from thoughts he'd had when he wasn't sick.

Dean loved Sam and John more than life. The other one did too, but the Handmaiden poison had done its job. They kept their loved ones close, all right, by eating them.

The night before Dean lay on his back in his bed.

"This way your father and your brother will never leave you, Dean," Minnie lay on her side with her arms around Dean. Lambchop lay across his hips. Tallulah pressed into him from the other side. Bugs had his head in her lap, and Misty and Albert sat on either side. They pressed into him, touched him all over his body, and he couldn't open his mouth to say anything. He raged at them inside his head.

_Get off me, you bitches --- _

Sam lay sound asleep in the other bed, curled on his side, snoring slightly.

_Damn it, get your filthy hands off me ---_

John came and stood in the doorway for a moment or so, a sad, quiet look on his face, as he stared at Dean, and then Sam.

_Please, Dad. Please… _

After a moment John turned away and left.

_No, Dad, don't leave me. Why can't you see this? No…_

Minnie chuckled. "That's the story of your life, little boy. He leaves you. They all leave you. Your mother…"

_Shut the hell up, you hear me?_

"Your Dad. He leaves you and Sam alone whenever, where ever he wants. For days, weeks even. And Sam? He'll leave you, Dean. When he gets older. He'll leave you. And he'll never come back."

_Shut the fuck up, you bitch!_

"There's a part of you that wants this. A part of you that's tired of being left like that. That's how we got in." She traced a fingernail down the side of Dean's jawline. "That's why we stay."

_That's not…I'm not…_

Minnie smiled. "You know it's true. You do. Haven't you ever wondered why we're all still here?" She brushed her lips against his.

"This way, you can keep them here," she touched his heart, "And here," she slid her slim fingers down, placed her palm over his flat belly, spread her fingers wide. "They'll be with you always, Dean. I promise. She idly traced patterns on his chest with her fingertips.

Dean dreamed he ate well that night. He sat at Pastor Jim's table, and it was all normal at first. He was eating barbequed chicken and potato salad. Dad was there, and so was Sam, and Pastor Jim and Bobby.

Dean ate until he was about to bust, and suddenly Minnie was there whispering in his ear. It was all right, it was fine, but Dean wondered where Dad and Sam and Bobby and Pastor Jim had got to.

Dean kept right on eating. He cleaned all the meat off those large bones and later on he washed the blood off his hands.

* * *

Dean huddled there in the darkness. He felt the wetness on his face and he didn't give a fuck.

No more tears.

He sat there staring into the darkness, blocked out the images of Minnie and the rest of them as they roamed all around him and Sam.

Nothing would happen. Not yet.

Dean concentrated on Sam's weight at his side, on Sam's breathing, the warmth of Sam's skin.

Dean sniffed noisily, wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

_You want to play, little boy, we'll play. See who ends up eating who._

He was getting even more pissed with every passing second.

Sam hadn't gone on many hunts with Dad, at least not as many as Dean had. The fact that there was no sign of Dad, or Bobby or Caleb didn't mean he and Sam were in the clear.

As a matter of fact, Dean doubted it.

Everything was all twisted up so bad in the rest of his head Dean doubted it would ever get straightened out again. He was screwed. He didn't want to live like this. He wouldn't. He couldn't let Sam die because of him. He had to stop himself.

But he didn't have the strength to do the job.

They passed the pond, with the dragonflies zipping through the air all around them, and the frogs singing their chorus. It'd be dark soon. Where ever they were heading, they'd hole up for the night.

And all Dean could think of was when he was little, and his mom told him that there were no such things as monsters, not in the closet, not in broad daylight, but she was wrong. One was there the night she died, yellow-eyed and smirking, and there was this bunch, all around him and Sam right now, lean and blonde and smirking with sharp teeth and claws. Sam couldn't see them, couldn't hear, didn't notice.

Mom told Dean that angels were watching over him, too. He didn't believe that after she died, but now he prayed that someone was listening, prayed for Sam's sake, prayed that when night fell, this would all be over.

He'd make sure of it.

* * *

The shed was old, three walls and a roof, really. The sun was just at the horizon, and all around them the shadows were getting longer. Minnie, Tallulah, Bugs, Misty, Lambchop and Albert all lounged around the place, in the grass, on top of tree trunks and downed logs.

Sam walked right through Minnie in the shed. Bitch was nosing around the stuff Sam had stacked in one corner. She hissed and faded out, and for a moment Dean hoped she wouldn't, couldn't come back.

But she did.

The nights were still warm. They had blankets and jackets. It wouldn't be a bad night to sleep out.

Dean sat with his back against the far wall. Sam went into one of the duffels and pulled out two cans of chili with pull-tabs, spoons, and a flash light. He handed Dean one of the cans and a spoon. "Can't start a fire, Dean. Dad might see it," Sam muttered.

Dean stared at the can, and then glanced out at the sky. His stomach rumbled. "'m not really that hungry, Sam. Maybe later."

"Okay." Sam had a hurt look in his eyes. "We're not gonna stay here. Just for tonight."

Dean nodded. "I know."

Sam shrugged, tried to play it off. "Your eyes are green again."

"They are?"

"Yep. You look tired. Try to get some rest, all right?" Sam went over to his duffel and dug out a bottle of hand sanitizer. "I gotta take a leak. Be right back."

Dean shook his head. "Way too much information, dude."

Sam laughed.

* * *

Ten minutes later, and Sam still hadn't come back. Dean just sat there, with his head down, staring at a spot of ground just past his feet.

"Hey, Dean," John Winchester said softly.

Dean raised his head. "D-Dad?"

"Hey, son." John was dressed for the hunt, in that black jacket of his. Dean knew where John's gun would be, which pocket he kept that flask of holy water in, which boot he kept his Kershaw blade. He looked tired, eyes slightly bloodshot. Some of the hair in his beard was grey.

He was the most beautiful sight Dean had ever seen, for today, at least.

"Sammy?" Dean croaked out loud.

John nodded. "He's with Bobby. And Caleb."

Tears came to Dean's eyes, and he didn't know why.

"How you doin', Ace?"

"Not too good. I'm still sick."

"I know. I'm sorry, Dean."

"Wasn't…wasn't your fault. Mine. Screwed up."

"No, you didn't." John shook his head. "You saved a lot of lives that night, son."

"Huh." Dean barked laughter and John frowned. "What's so funny?"

"They…they didn't want Sam anyway."

"They?"

"Minnie and the others."

"How many are we talking about, Dean?"

"Six. Six handmaidens."

Minnie hissed into his left ear. _Don't tell him about us. Don't---_

Dean turned and laughed in her face. "Been following me around. They were even at the hospital. You can't see or hear them. Nobody else can, but me. I tried, Dad. I really did…." Dean's voice cracked.

"I know you did." John knelt down so they were eye level. "It's gonna be okay, Dean. It is. I promise."

Dean's eyes flicked over John's sturdy frame. Dad was packing. Dean couldn't see a gun, but he knew John had one. "Sam's too small. You're big enough."

"Dean?"

"Dad, I'm…I'm sorry." Dean went into a crouch in one fluid motion. His eyes faded into light grey. He was all teeth and claws now. "Sorry I have to put this on you. Sorry I screwed up."

"Don't apologize. Don't." John shook his head. "I'm sorry I didn't figure this out before. Sorry you had to go through all this."

"Dad, I'm so hungry…"

Minnie hissed in Dean's ear. _We have to leave, they have guns._

He ignored her.

Dean ignored Sam shouting --- "Uncle Bobby, no! Leave him alone!" --- somewhere just out of reach.

Dean went to all fours and leaped right at his father. He heard a sound split the air, sharp, loud and flat. He'd always been taught that you never hear the shot that kills you, but that might be wrong.

Everything went black.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Next chapter will be posted Sunday. The cure for Dean might be worse than the disease.


	17. And in that darkness when I’m blind

**Chapter 17: And in that darkness when I'm blind**

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title from _Johanna_, by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_). Oh, Terry? I was going for extreme Hurt!Dean in this chapter, but the story had other ideas. Next chapter, I promise, or you can fling that dead horse filled with barn cats at me. I fear your deadly aim, author woman.

_**Second A/N:**_ Ah hah, Phoebe, thought I forgot about you and Bartlett, huh? Take off the battle garb. Here it is.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 17 - And in that darkness when I'm blind with what I can't forget**_

_Over…_Dean thought dully to himself. _It's over…_

He was warm now, warm because of the silver bullet in his side. It pulsed inside him, glowed like a smoldering red ember in an ash heap. Silver burns, right? Dean used to wonder how it felt on hunts, after he'd shot the fugly, put it down on the ground for good, made sure that it would never get back up. He saw the way the things would scream and shriek. It looked painful.

This felt almost comfortable.

He was warm and he was sprawled out on his belly, but he was himself again, like those old Wolfman movies, where ol' Larry Talbot turns human again with his dying breath. Never thought one day that would be him like that, but dying wasn't so bad. This wasn't so bad.

It wasn't.

Couldn't be, because the Handmaidens were really pissed off.

He blinked as his eyes adjusted. It was dark, about as dark as it gets around dusk. Dean got it. This was one more scene from his life, the last one, the one his addled brain apparently decided to leave him with as he checked out of this life. He was inside his own head. Tall trees nearby, grass underneath his fingers. Vague shapes moved in the darkness all around him, flashes of blonde hair, lean skin pale in the darkness, light grey eyes gone red with rage.

_Stupid boy,_ Minnie hissed.

He jerked as she dug her claws into him. Minnie laughed as she slowly dragged her claws down the left side of his back, deep into his muscles. Dean jerked upwards as she pulled. The pain flared red hot, hotter than the silver. Five stripes, ragged and deep, and that wasn't going to be the end of it. They were just getting started. Dean laughed, a short bark of laughter full of rage and defiance. Anything that pissed them off was a good thing.

_When you feast, we feast._

_And when I die, you bitches do too,_ Dean thought tiredly. It was okay. He could do this. He could die and drag Minnie and the rest down in the dark with him. Away from Dad. Away from Sam.

_Stupid, stupid boy. We could've given you the world, do you know that? Do you?_

He could die, all right, but he didn't want to die on his belly. Or his knees. Dean pushed up with his hands. At least, he wanted to. His body wasn't getting the message. He slipped down again just as Albert pushed her knee into the back of his neck. She laughed when Dean's head jerked back down so hard his jaws clicked together and he nearly bit off the tip of his tongue. It was a small pain compared to the rest.

"Get off me," Dean snarled.

_Wanna hear you scream, meat,_ Albert cooed.

All that chatter in his head melted away. All those thoughts about Dad and Sam, how it would feel to taste them, how it would feel to eat them, all that was gone now. He was Dean again, just Dean, but he didn't know for how long. Voices and sounds from the outside echoed in the darkness all around. Dean couldn't see John, or Bobby, Sam or Caleb, but he could hear them clearly enough.

Huh. Takes a while to die then.

Not long enough.

"No! No! Dean, please don't leave me---"

"Caleb," John rumbled quietly, "get Sam out of here."

_"---hate you for this, Dad. You hear me? I hate you ---"_

_Sammy, I'm…I'm sorry…_Dean closed his eyes.

"…through and through…" John sounded deadly calm, all business. "Got the bleeding stopped…"

That made Dean's eyes widen. Why would they even bother with that? He was dying. He was leaving.

Unless…

"Gonna have to move him, John. Like right now," Bobby said gruffly.

No.

"Jim says the vault's ready," Bobby continued. "We gotta move."

_Oh, God, please, no…_

_Sooo,_ Minnie purred into Dean's left ear. _Little beauty's not as clever as he thought he was. Daddy wants to save his boy. Good…_

"Get off me, you bitch---"

_Good for us,_ Misty whispered.

_Teach you a good lesson now, boy,_ Tallulah hissed.

Another five stripes down his back, diagonal this time, right across the small of his back, from side to side.

_Blood you up a little more, darling boy. Put more poison into that pretty skin of yours…_

Somebody else (Bugs, or Lambchop maybe) raked the back of his head with their fingernails. Dean nearly screamed out loud then. Minnie laughed. Dean bit down on his lips, tasted blood in his mouth. All he could managed was a half-choked groan, and that seemed to amuse Minnie more.

_…help you think straight…_

More pain, white hot, down his arms, across his shoulders, deep, burning. White noise rose up inside Dean's head, rose up even as he felt himself being pulled under.

_…make your mind right…_

They came at him from every possible direction, and he couldn't fight, couldn't even raise himself up onto his knees. Out of the corner of his eye Dean caught a glimpse of long blonde hair, soft and shining in the dimness. She had her arms around him, pinned his arms to his side, held him close, and Dean was too tired to fight.

Dean froze as everything came to a halt.

He smelled spring flowers. Honeysuckle. Roses.

Lavender soap.

Smell of warm water and Mr. Bubble.

Apple pies baking. Lemon cookies still hot from the stove.

Dad sitting in the kitchen in that that blue and black plaid bathrobe of his, drinking coffee, laughing. Relaxed and happy.

Before it all ended in blood and screaming.

"You're gonna be a good big brother, Dean. The best there ever was. I just know you are…"

Before everything vanished beneath a wave of orange flame and smoke…

"Hello, sweetie."

"Mom," Dean whispered hoarsely.

* * *

"Get your damn hands off me---" Sam lashed out, struck Caleb on the instep of his left foot. Those heavy boots Celb was wearing cushioned most of the blow, but it still hurt like hell. Sam was John Winchester's son after all, and John taught his boys well. Sam intended to cripple Caleb, or at least drive him back.

"Sam, look ---" Caleb blocked another blow, this one aimed towards his face. He was taller than Sam, but that didn't mean he could let his guard down.

"Damn it, I mean it, Caleb!" Sam jerked free and backed up a few steps, but not before he aimed a couple more blows at Caleb's mid-section. Kid could have taken off running into the woods but he didn't.

He wouldn't. After all this he still wouldn't leave Dean.

Sam stood there breathing heavily, his skin flushed, eyes dark with rage and fear. Caleb watched Sam's eyes, caught that sideways movement that told him that the kid was watching Bobby and John behind Caleb, as they carefully wrapped Dean in a blanket, lifted him up, and carried him to Bobby's truck.

Sam darted forward and Caleb blocked his path. Sam jumped back.

"Where the hell are they taking him?"

"Sam…"

"Where the hell are they taking him?"

"Your daddy's got a plan."

Sam huffed. "A plan? Yeah, right, like Dad's half-assed plans have worked out so far, huh? Haven't you been paying attention, Caleb?"

"Will you wait just a damned minute?"

"Dad's gonna save Dean? That what you're telling me, Caleb? Dad had Uncle Bobby shoot Dean. You think I'm stupid or something? How the hell is that gonna save Dean?"

"You wanna help Dean or not, Sam?" Caleb snapped.

That harsh tone in Caleb's voice stopped Sam short. "What?"

"I said, do you wanna help your brother? Do you? You're too busy running your damn mouth. You can't see what's in front of your own face. Dean's not right, Sam. He's not right, and you're lucky he didn't try to hurt you before we got here."

"Dean…Dean wouldn't do that…"

"You sure about that? Huh? Are you?"

Sam's eyes shifted to a space on the ground somewhere to the left of Caleb.

Caleb's tone softened. "Now listen, I know you're worried about Dean. You tried to help him. You can help him now. Your Dad and Bobby came up with something, with Pastor Jim's help. Now we can fight all night, or you can shut the hell up and listen."

Sam nodded warily.

"Pastor Jim knows some people. We can take Dean to them, keep him safe there until we can get everything we need to help him."

Sam stood there, and he flinched at the sound of Bobby's truck starting up. Old hunter's trick, kill the engine, glide up to the target's doorstep nice and quiet. That was why he hadn't heard them approach.

"You wanna help? You can. John says you can either calm down and come along, or I'm supposed to take you back to Pastor Jim's and lock you in the basement. Your choice."

Sam blinked, and Caleb realized the boy was actually closer to tears right now. Sam's shoulders slumped; all that fire and energy and rage was gone now.

"I wanna…I wanna help Dean."

Caleb nodded. "Okay then. Get in my truck, and let's roll."

* * *

Going to a hospital, Dean muttered inside his head. Don't wanna go...

_Mary nodded. John wants to help you, Dean. They all do._

_Dad...Sam...they don't know the things I wanted to do...the stuff I thought about…I can't live like that. They're…they're better off without me._

_Oh, Dean,_ Mary whispered softly, _I don't see how you can even say that._

At first he thought it was an emergency room, but it wasn't. It was a house, a big one, and he didn't move even as Dad carried him up the stairs. Dean wanted to walk, but he was just so damn tired. He didn't want John to carry him like that, so he put his head against John's shoulder and tried to remember to breathe, in and out, one more breath.

Because Mom wanted him to.

There were strangers inside, this red-headed man he didn't even know. A woman with short brown hair. Dean lay quietly as they tended to his wounds. He didn't even flinch when they inserted the IV's into his arm, didn't stir as they moved around him, touched him. Ordinarily Dean hated being touched by strangers, but Mom was here, so it was all right.

He could see Dad and Bobby, and Sam and Caleb, and they looked so sad standing there. Dean didn't understand why they looked like that.

"He's stable now," The woman whispered to John, but Dad still looked sad.

"Now what?" John asked, and there was a slight tremor in his voice that Dean hated to hear.

She shrugged. "We'll have to isolate him. We don't…we don't know who else is in there. Not yet, anyway."

All the while Mom kept talking to Dean, told him to save his strength, to lie still and quiet. He needed his rest, and that must have been true. He felt weak and tired, and all he could do was lie there as they rolled the gurney down the hallway, into another room.

They scrubbed the cell out with industrial strength cleaner months ago, after the last occupant was taken out, but the place still reeked. A lot of people had spent time in there.

It was a bad place.

There was that little girl who had a legion of souls inside her. Sarah was her name. She was scared, and she cried for her momma, even as the others inside her laughed and howled with laughter.

That teenaged boy. Kid's name was Aaron. He was about Sam's age, and Aaron didn't understand why his own family would cage him up like that, even when his ears and his nose grew long and pointed and his pelt exploded out of his skin.

The old woman's name was Nancy Bates. She was haunted by the ghost of her long dead lover. He came back to visit, and whenever he did her body was covered with scratches and bite marks. She was his, and he marked her.

Tommy Crain used to joke that his life just so damn boring. That was before he became the vessel for that snake god thing. Tommy missed boring after that, especially after his arms and legs withered away.

Dean was wide open now. He sensed all that and more. There were containment symbols painted on the walls, on the ceiling and the floor. The outer walls had layer upon layer of protection runes, stuff he had seen only at Pastor Jim's house, or in Bobby's dusty books. No one normal could smell the scents, hear the long gone voices, but Dean could.

It was all right, though. It was okay. Mom said it was. And sometimes she sounded like Minnie, but that was okay too.

* * *

Next chapter will be posted next week.


	18. he trod a path that few have trod

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title taken from _The Ballad of Sweeney Todd_, by Stephen Sondheim.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 18 - he trod a path that few have trod**_

John talked.

He talked and he hated every moment of it. He was the victim's relative this time, being asked careful questions by the people who were going to help his son.

Clay and Ida Pierson had come highly recommended, by none other than Jim Murphy. Besides that, John had heard of them through the years.

Sometimes they saved the people who were brought to them.

"_How you doin', Ace?"_

"_Not too good. I'm still sick."_

"_I know. I'm sorry, Dean."_

Sometimes they lost people.

_Not gonna happen. Not Dean. No fucking way, _John thought roughly. They were the same questions he would have asked, if he was working a job. But this wasn't just a job, damn it. This was _Dean_.

"How long has Dean been hunting?"

"What age was he when his mother died?"

John answered the questions, felt a rage he'd never felt before grip him. He sat there in that small office, right around the corner from the cell. Sam sat quietly beside him; Bobby and Caleb were down the hall, outside the cell, watching Dean. Clay Pierson sat behind his desk; Ida quietly stood by the window, looking out at the back yard.

It was hard to maintain his calm, but Dean needed John the hunter, not John the father.

John tried not to think about the many times he had posed as a cop, or a reporter, the times he'd sat in someone's living room or kitchen, grief in the air so thick he could almost smell it, while he gathered information from the deceased's family.

Poetic irony was a bitch in heat.

Then Clay Pierson opened his mouth and said something, said eleven words that made the tension level in the room skyrocket: "There's something about your son that is holding these spirits here."

"_Six. Six handmaidens," Dean croaked in John's memory. _

"Wait a minute," John growled roughly. He leaned forward in his chair, barely restrained energy in that sturdy frame of his. His eyes flashed, dark and unreadable. He looked at Clay first, then Ida as she stood by the window. "Are you blaming Dean? Are you saying that he _wants_ to be like that?"

Clay Pierson blinked in surprise. "I'm not blaming Dean for anything. This isn't some New Age crap about the victim wanting to be victimized for some reason."

"_Been following me around. They were even at the hospital…" _

"But?" John said quietly. There was a hard edge to his voice that was impossible to ignore.

"The point is, your son's survived Handmaiden poison, which is usually fatal." Clay leaned forward. "He has a pack of Handmaiden spirits lingering around him. Now, I've never heard of anyone in that situation being able to resist their influence for this long, without incident."

"_You can't see or hear them. Nobody else can, but me. I tried, Dad. I really did…" _

"Without eating someone, you mean," Sam said softly.

Clay nodded. "That's exactly right."

Ida turned away from the window with her arms folded across her chest. "All right. We don't have time to waste with this. The longer this goes on, the harder it will be for Dean, and for you. I take it from the scars I saw on his body that he's been hunting with you for some time, Mr. Winchester?"

"Yes he has." _Get to the damn point._

"Dean was four when his mother died. Did he see her die?"

"I don't…I don't think so."

"But you can't be sure," Ida murmured softly out loud. Her eyes were hooded, her expression unreadable.

"Is there some fucking point to all of this?" John grated.

Neither Pierson took offense. Ida tilted her head slightly to one side as she spoke. "Yes, there is. There's a part of Dean that loves his family very much. A part of him that is decent and upright. And then there's his dark side. We all have one."

John seemed calm, reasonable, but he was very close to showing them his own dark side, and everyone in that room knew it.

"Dean's eighteen years old now. That's fourteen years of being on the road, state after state, with no permanent home. The life of a hunter is a very hard, very dangerous life. We all know that. Let me take an educated guess about Dean. I really wish I could have met him under better circumstances. I would guess that he loves you both very much, would do anything you asked him. With no hesitation, no complaints. Am I right?"

John nodded slowly. So did Sam.

"The Handmaidens are organized in clans, sub-grouped into packs of six. Very close knit. They never leave each other. And I imagine, Mr. Winchester, that there have been times when you had to leave your boys alone while you went hunting for the thing that killed your wife. Dean never complained. He wouldn't. But there's a part of him that is enraged by that, the wild, dark side of him that wants those Handmaiden spirits around him."

John sat there, eerily calm. Ida glanced at John and Sam, both so much alike. This was the part that she hated, giving bad news, but there was no way around it.

"We're running against the clock here," she said flatly. We did some digging, read up on the Handmaidens since Jim called us. There are little known two cases of survivors who were treated." Clay slid a brown manila folder across the desk, towards John. John took the folder and opened it up as Sam leaned in for a closer look.

"The top photo is a sheriff's deputy by the name of Aaron Randall. Shreveport, Louisiana. St. George's Parish. He survived a Handmaiden attack in 1986." Randall was in uniform the day the picture was taken. He was stocky, with a blond crew cut. Couldn't have been more than twenty five. He smiled broadly into the camera lens.

John flipped the photo over.

The next photo showed Randall crouched over on all fours, much like Dean had out in the woods. Randall was naked except for a pair of tattered blue jeans. He'd lost weight, about thirty pounds or so; John could tell, even though the man crouched in the shadows of a darkened room somewhere. His mild brown eyes shone a startling light grey, his lips curled back from his teeth in a feral snarl.

"_Dad, I'm so hungry…"_

"Deputy Randall spent six months confined in a similar containment cell while his family and friends searched for a cure," Clay said softly. "The cure was administered seven months later. It didn't take. He was later put out of his misery by his father."

John turned to the next photo. It showed a young girl, about Dean's age. She had wavy chin-length hair, and bright blue eyes. It was her high school graduation photo. She wore her bright blue mortarboard and gown proudly.

"Then there was the case of Anna Larch, Gulf Breeze, Florida. Her family decided on the cure, which was administered within two weeks time. Miss Larch survived, and at last report, ten years later, is residing with her family."

John turned the top photo over, and he and Sam stared at the image underneath.

She was childlike. Her eyes were unfocused, and she sat in the lawn chair awkwardly, as though she'd forgotten how to sit.

Ida's voice softened slightly. "Her quality of life is good. She can feed herself. She recognizes her family most days."

"What…what is this?" John said hoarsely.

"Do you know what an earwig is?" Clay said simply.

Sam huffed. "It's a bug. Of the order _Dermaptera_." John tried not to smile. Only Sammy would know something obscure like that. The thought immediately made John feel sick to his stomach. Dean always helped Sam with his homework. "Lore has it that it can crawl inside a person's head."

Clay nodded. "That's right. 'Course some of them actually can. The proper authorities wouldn't want the public knowing that the damn things really can crawl into your ears. So they lie. It's not a surprise that they do."

John's eyes widened. He sat back in the chair with a thump. "What the hell are you saying? This is the _cure_? _This_?"

"It's the only one we've been able to uncover." Ida's voice was carefully neutral. "There's a species of earwig, _Arnexiina __obcaecat__i_, that is drawn to certain sections of the brain, where the poison is concentrated. Dean's young, strong, like Anna Larch. He should be able to live a long life."

"Not…not like this…" John whispered as he looked down at the last photo, into Anna Larch's smiling, vacant face.

Sam drew back, away from John and the folder. "Wait a minute. You're saying this bug would eat away part of his brain?"

Clay nodded.

"And Dean would end up like this?"

"Best case scenario. Yes."

"You're crazy, you know that? You're fucking crazy," Sam said harshly. He stood up, the back of his legs knocking against the edge of the chair. The chair fell over, and Sam didn't even notice. "Dad…you…you're not gonna agree to this--"

John raised his head then, stared at Clay and Ida. "You said the clock is ticking. How long do we have?" The calmness on his face was frightening.

Ida shrugged. "Three days at the most."

"Dad? You can't ---"

"Sam? It's an option. Just one."

"The longer you wait---" Clay said.

John's face darkened slightly. "I heard you the first time, damn it." He stood up, put the folder back on the desk.

"I have to be with my son," John murmured softly. He walked out of the room. Sam followed, but not without giving both the Piersons an extremely dirty look.

* * *

Dean looked so damn pale lying there on the gurney in the cell. That spray of freckles across his nose looked even darker. Dark circles underneath his eyes, and his lips were chapped. Seeing him like that, John realized his eldest was always in motion somehow. Dean sometimes moved and mumbled out loud in his sleep.

John stood there staring, watched Dean's chest rise and fall, slowly. John's vision blurred, wavered, until everything around him was a messy, smeared blur.

_Not here, you sonofabitch._ John blinked.

He turned around and walked very slowly down the hall.

Sam frowned. "Dad? We have to talk about this---" He reached out to touch his father and Bobby Singer put his hand on Sam's arm.

"Sam," Bobby whispered roughly. "Don't. Leave him be for now, son."

John walked outside, around the corner of the house.

"_Nothing's going to happen to Dean. Or to you. Not while I'm around. You know that, Sam."_

He barely felt the cool bricks against his back as he leaned against the wall.

"_You…you couldn't save __her__, could you? Mom's dead, Dad. Why should I believe anything you say?"_

Tears ran down John's face as his broad shoulders shook. It was only the second time in his entire life he had ever cried. First, for Mary, and now for Dean.

* * *

TBC this week.


	19. his needs are few, his room is bare

_**Chapter 19 - his needs are few, his room is bare**_

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title taken from _The Ballad of Sweeney Todd_, by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_). Song lyrics in the latter part of this chapter taken from AC/DC. _Rock Your Heart Out._ This chapter is a little longer than usual. It contains the usual weirdness, plus Hurt!Dean, some comfort from unexpected source, plenty of Winchester angst, underage whoring (implied), and other socially unacceptable behavior.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

Sam hated that place. He hated every brick, every floorboard. He hated Clay and Ida Pierson with an intensity that didn't bother him in the least.

And right now, Sam hated John Winchester most of all.

So this was Dad's grand plan? A fucking _worm_, no less. Gonna slip it into Dean's ear and sit there and watch as it chewed and nibbled on Dean's brain, just sit there and watch the damn thing eat everything that was _Dean _inside. Then, when Dean wakes up (_if _he wakes up --and wouldn't that be just about _right_?), he won't be Dean anymore. Not exactly. Just a smiling, vacant shell of himself.

_Genius move, Dad. Real genius._ Sam huffed bitterly to himself. Should have known the bastard was going to screw this up too.

The Piersons were nowhere in sight, which was a pretty damn good thing. If they'd come up to Sam all polite and consoling, with those false smiles and fake understanding, he would have had a hard time controlling himself. Dad was still outside, and Sam didn't really notice when Uncle Bobby left too. Caleb was gone, too. It was just as well.

Dean was the most important person here anyway, and he wasn't going _anywhere_.

Sam sat in the hallway with his back jammed into the wall. He stared at Dean in the cell and if he squinted he could barely make out the slow rise and fall of his older brother's chest. Dean was covered up to his shoulders by a white sheet. Those ridiculously long eyelashes of his seemed even longer and darker in contrast to the paleness of his skin. He was strapped onto the gurney ("a precaution", that Pierson bitch said) and the heart monitor he was hooked up to beeped at a steady pace.

Sam began to rock back and forth in time with the beep. He was barely aware he was doing it, but the motion was comforting somehow, as though he was in there with Dean, as though Dean could feel him move with the rhythm of his heart.

Everything in Sam's vision blurred. Dean, the gurney, the cell…

The beeping of Dean's heart stuttered in Sam's ears, and he felt panic for a moment or two, like he was somehow putting a jinx on Dean's heartbeat. Sam hurriedly wiped the wet away with his fingers. He ignored the shakiness in his hands, the tightness in his chest.

He'd had bad feelings before, feelings so heavy and oppressive that the spit in his mouth turned to sour acid, his throat clenched up and his stomach and bowels decided that it was a fire sale and everything must go. This time was worse, though. He'd known what was going to happen. He saw it, scene by scene. It scared the hell out of him. That was way different from the other times, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the lesson behind this.

Dad couldn't save Mom. He couldn't save Dean. And Sam knew that if Dad couldn't save those two, he couldn't save _him_, either, when the time came.

Sam was eight years old when he found out that there really was such a thing as monsters in the world. It happened around Christmas time, and as usual Dad was nowhere around. He was off hunting something somewhere, and twelve year old Dean was around.

Dean was _always_ around. He sometimes imitated Dad's voice, barked at Sam in that rough growl. If that was supposed to intimidate him, then it most always had the opposite effect. It pissed Sam off when Dean did that, but he couldn't stay mad for long.

He was the best thing in Sam's life, despite the teasing and the grief they gave each other sometimes.

"Dad's a superhero," Dean said with a quiet smile that Christmas night.

Sam quite frankly couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe the quiet, reverent way Dean said it, couldn't believe that his kick ass big brother had that much blind, unyielding faith in the man.

Three days, they'd said. Clock was running all the time Dean was at Pastor Jim's, and they didn't even know it.

_Dad couldn't even do this right,_ Sam thought to himself. _He couldn't…_

Caleb showed up five minutes later balancing two plates in one hand and two dark brown glass bottles in his other hand. He put his back to the wall and slowly slid down as he took a seat on the floor next to Sam.

"Bathroom's around that corner on the left when you need to take a leak." Caleb jerked his head in the direction he'd come from, down the hall. "There's a room with a couple of beds in there right next to the john. In case you wanna lie down."

"No. I wanna stay here with Dean." Sam stared into the cell, hoping to see any change. There was none, just the slow rise and fall of Dean's chest and that reassuring beep.

He breathed a little easier when he saw and heard that.

Caleb shrugged. "Figured as much. Well, here," he handed Sam one of the plates. "Hope you like ham and mayo on wheat bread." A bottle of root beer, cold and sweaty, came next.

Sam frowned as he stared at the plate in his hand. "Who made this?"

"I did. The Piersons let me use their kitchen." Caleb grinned at Sam's bitchface. "What? If I said they made it, you weren't gonna eat it?"

Sam didn't have to say a word.

"Damn, Winchester, you're scaring the hell outta me right now."

"I can't stand those people." Sam put the bottle down on the floor next to him. He balanced the plate on his lap.

_Didn't chuck it back at me,_ Caleb thought. Well, that was a good sign. "Okay. So what's going on, Sam?"

All Sam had to do was glance at Dean, lying so pale and quiet, then turn back and quirk an eyebrow at Caleb.

Caleb understood.

"I trust your Dad. Saved my ass once. That bad business down in Baton Rouge that time."

"That's the thing. He can save everybody else. But not _us_. Not Dean. And not Mom."

"Okay," Caleb nodded. "I can see how you'd feel that way. Thing is, your Dad wasn't a hunter when your Mom died. Was he? No. And now, this thing with Dean? I trust your Dad. Dude, I do. I can tell by the look on your face that you're not gonna believe me anyway, so I'm gonna save my breath. All I'm saying is, Sam, give your Dad a chance. Dean trusts him. You trust Dean, don't you?"

"I do, but…"

"But what?"

"Dean trusted Dad. Too much. If he hadn't Dean would be okay."

_Damn._ Caleb just sat there. Wasn't a hell of a lot he could say to _that_.

* * *

…not right…" Dean mumbled to himself. None of this was right.

He was home.

Not in the Impala. That was home on the road. Not backwoods cabin home, or even skeezy motel room home, but _home home_, the only_ real_ home he'd ever had, back in Lawrence Kansas, and Dean couldn't even remember how he got there.

He didn't feel well, but that was no damn excuse. Everything around him was too bright, too loud. His skin was stretched way too tight over his muscles.

_Teach you a good lesson now__…_

Mom was here. He was just as tall as she was, and that was wrong too, but he couldn't walk without her. She had her arm around his waist and his right arm over her shoulders. They stumble-stepped down the front hallway, and that was wrong too. Seemed longer and larger than he remembered from before. More rooms in the place than ever before.

He knew_ that_ was wrong too.

Dean dragged his feet on the hardwood floor. His legs were like rubber and half the time he couldn't feel the floor underneath the soles of his feet.

There was another wrong detail, too.

_Blood you up a little more, darling boy. _

He was the one burning, not her.

_Put more poison into that pretty skin of yours…_

His skin was damn near transparent, lit up from the inside, glowing with warm orange flame just underneath his skin. He could see his bones underneath his skin, flickering bars of light.

…_help you think straight…make your mind right…_

He didn't want her to touch him, didn't want to see her burn again, but she didn't burn, and didn't seem to mind the heat that radiated off him like an oven. That was when he knew he'd gotten all the details all screwed up, but Dean didn't care because he had already seen Mom pale and bleeding on the ceiling of Sammy's nursery, and he really could have gone for the rest of his life without seeing that again, thank you very much. So if he was supposed to burn instead of her, that was fine with him.

"Deaaannn," Minnie cooed softly through the locked front door. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, dear. Dean?"

"M-Mom?" He leaned into her, and he didn't want to, but he couldn't help it.

Mary frowned. "I'm right here, Dean. Don't listen to her, baby. I'm here. It's all right."

It wasn't all right. There was lots of stuff in each room in the house. Dean knew there was.

There was stuff inside each room that he didn't want her to see.

First door on the left, where the dining room used to be, was that time in Albuequerque, when Dad was off hunting that dyunn out in the desert.

No word from Dad for three weeks, and the rent was due again. Fourteen year old Dean stood there in the manager's office, and he was suddenly aware how faded his jeans were. They had holes in both knees, and they looked just as worn out as he felt. That Led Zeppelin t shirt was from a thift store in another state. He stared down at his feet, at the damn worn ratty looking beige carpet and the cheap sneakers he had on, and he suddenly knew that when he left this room he wasn't going to be the same person who walked in.

"Sure, kid. Sure." The hotel manager was a slick-eyed runt with the thin, predatory face of a weasel. He sat on the corner of his desk and looked Dean up and down. "I'll let you and baby brother stay here rent free another week. You do understand what I'm saying, right?"

"You don't touch my brother, you hear me? You leave him be."

"Sure, pretty. Whatever you say…"

Dean watched his younger self stand there in that ratty motel office. He didn't remember his shoulders slumped down like that, but they must have been.

The manager got up and closed the door.

The expression on Mom's face was unreadable.

"He leaves us," Dean whispered hoarsely. He could feel the manager's hot breath against his skin.

Dean bared his teeth. He shuddered as a sudden wave of anger shook his spine.

"Dad ditches us. Me and Sammy…over and over again…." Rage choked him, closed his throat up. He couldn't breathe…all he could feel were those hands on his skin, pulling at him…

"Dean," Mary said quietly, "Your father loves you." She tightened her arm around his waist. She didn't burn, despite the heat in his skin, and Dean was grateful for that. "I love you. Nothing you could ever do or say would ever change that."

The next room was that backwoods cabin, six months ago.

Sam was on a tear.

"You pulled me out of school for this? For this?" Sam snarled. He pitched his duffel into the far corner. "Mom wouldn't want us to live like this."

"Sam," John said, deceptively calm, "I don't want to hear this right now."

"I don't give a damn what you don't wanna hear right now."

"Drop and give me fifty push ups, Sam." John's tone was frigid.

Dean stopped in front of the doorway, swaying on his feet. He didn't want to see this again. Didn't want to hear this again.

Dean saw himself sitting on the bed nearest the door. John busied himself unpacking the duffel full of canned goods, and Dean could tell that he was tensing up. He saw it in his Dad's shoulders. That tender spot between Dean's own shoulders tightened so much that Dean bit back the groan rising up in his own throat.

And Sam would not shut the hell up.

"I'm not your soldier, Dad. I'm your son, remember? If Mom were here, she wouldn't want this for us. You know she wouldn't."

"Seventy five push-ups now, Sam."

"Don't you get it? I'm not---"

John's hand curled up into a fist. Dean sitting on the bed saw it, and he was suddenly up and pushing Sam towards the door.

"This isn't a democracy, Sam." John's voice rose. Just a little, a sign that he was just about at the edge. "You do what I say, when I say."

Dean pushed Sam out of the cabin and the room went dark.

"They fight all the time now…" Dean whispered. "No matter what I do, they fight all the time. It's getting worse, and I don't know how to make them stop…"

"It's okay baby," It's okay." Mary leaned into him, gave him as much of a hug as she was able.

He stood there for a moment, swaying on his feet.

There was music coming from the room at the end. It was faint at first. Dean didn't get it at first, but then as he recognized the words, his heart jolted against his ribcage and he tried to pull back.

"No. No…."

_**Got the devil in you**_

The smell of meat frying on the stove wafted down the hallway, and Den felt his stomach lurch painfully.

_**Got the devil in me**_

Part of the kitchen table was visible though the doorway. Sam lay on the table. Dean saw part of Sam's leg, bent at the knee, as his legs protruded out from underneath the tablecloth. The soles of Sam's feet were smooth, and bare. Dean knew Sam wasn't all there.

Part of him was in the skillet.

Part of him was in Dean's stomach, as he ate the hamburger and danced around the kitchen singing to himself.

_**Play a dangerous tune  
Come on and dance with thee**_

It was Pastor Jim's kitchen again, and off in the distance he could see John's dead body lying out in the hallway. Dad stared up at the ceiling, eternally glassy-eyed, with that big gaping hole in his chest.

Dean could hear somebody screaming.

"No. No no no no no no…"

Over and over again.

He could hear them, hear the voices in the rooms all around him, as they rose up. Something bad he'd either done or thought about was in each room. Each and every room.

"…such a pretty mouth, boy…"

"No…no…no no no no…"

"…won't tell your Daddy. Just let me…"

_Not fair,_ Dean thought to himself. _We have to sleep in the Impala while this bastard lives in a house. I got my gun. I could go back there…_

"We'll help you. We don't mind," Minnie whispered.

Dad didn't put up much of a fight when he died. He tasted warm, and sad somehow.

"You can eat in your sleep, and eat when you're awake, until you can't tell the difference anymore…"

Dean saw himself walk up behind Jim Murphy in that sunlit kitchen back in the rectory.

He split Pastor Jim wide open with that wood axe.

"…no…no…"

_This isn't wrong,_ Dean thought to himself. He picked the neighbor's back door lock, just as easy as can be. _Dad will be home in a few days. I don't like that cough Sam's got. He needs medicine and I don't have the money for it. _

_He liked Mr. Pryce, the neighbor. Dude seemed decent enough. But Dean couldn't ask him for the money, didn't dare risk it. _

_So he waited until Pryce left for work that morning. _

_Later on that same day when the cops came to Mr. Pryce's house next door, Dean stood on the front lawn with the neighbors and talked about what a shame it was._

"…_no…no…"_

"_Go on, Dean. Eat." Minnie whispered. "You can keep your family close this way. It's just dreams."_

"…no…no…"

Sam stared sightlessly up into the night sky.

"It's better this way, Sam. You'll never leave me now. And you won't gith with Dad anymore, either. I love you, Sammy. You know that right?"

"no---"

"Dean?"

"Please…"

Some of it was real, and some of it wasn't, it was all mixed in together, one scene after another, but it was all inside him. Dean knew it, and he didn't want Mom to see, didn't want anyone to see what a twisted wreck he was inside.

He sat with his back against the wall, he was on the floor, and Mom was there. She held him just like she had when he was little.

"Mom, I don't…don't want you to see this…" He was babbling now, and he knew it, but he also knew she already knew the things he'd done, and the things he thought about recently. It all came out in an incoherent rush of words.

He had to explain. He needed to.

". …go to bed hungry…" Dean sobbed. God, he was bawling like a little bitch, but he couldn't help it. "…have to leave 'cause the rent wasn't paid. I worked some times…I did…not Dad's fault…not Sam's… saw the way people looked at me…I stole some things…I did stuff that I'm not proud of, and the things, the things in my head now…"

Mary held him. Mary rocked him in her arms.

"I thought about…thought about hurting people… if they looked at Dad wrong…if they looked at Sam funny…'cause it's not fair. You're gone, and it's not fair…Dad's got enough to think about every day…I guess…I guess screwed everything up…'m a freak, I am… you told me that I was gonna be the best big brother in the world, and Mom…all I do is screw up. All the time... that's all I do…"

The voices roared up in Dean's ears _…so sweet……pretty boy…worthless trash…look at this freak…_but Mary's quiet whisper in Dean's ear was louder.

It drowned everything out.

"I love you, Dean."

He could feel her breathing, feel her heartbeat against his.

All the voices fell away.

"I don't care what you've done. I don't care what you thought, what you did or didn't do. I love you." She hugged him even tighter. The fever roared underneath Dean's skin.

_Please don't burn, Mom, please don't burn…_

"I love you, Dean. Always have, always will. Don't you realize that by now? I love you. There's nothing you could do that would disappoint me. Or make me hate you."

'…n-not true…"

"It is true. It is."

"You're not my Mom."

She laughed. Light and airy, full of joy and life, just like she'd been before. "Yes I am. I've always been a part of you, and I always will be. You and Sam are the best thing I have ever created in this life."

"I don't…I don't have long. 'm sick…"

_You're the last bit of humanity this beautiful body of yours has,_ Minnie whispered. _You're weak. We poisoned you. _

"I know, baby. I know. You take what you need from _me_, Dean. You hear me?" Mary said fiercely.

The poison roared inside Dean's veins, filled his head with images of blood and torn flesh.

Mary was fading away.

"You take everything you need from me." Her voice wavered ghost-like in the still air. "When it's time."

Dean closed his eyes. Her skin was still warm against his; her heartbeat echoed inside him.

He opened his eyes moments later. His gaze was light grey now, instead of dull green.

Dean's stomach growled, and he was _so_ hungry.

* * *

TBC next week.


	20. these are my friends

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title taken from _My Friends_, by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_). I have searched and searched for the first name of Bobby's poor dead wife. Couldn't find it anywhere. I even watched Dream A Little Dream Of Me, and looked at various sites with DALDOM transcripts. I don't think she has a name, so I gave her one. Thought it would seem kinda odd if Bobby kept referring to her as "my wife". If anyone knows what her name is, if she even has one (Phoebe? Anyone?) please let me know and I'll change it. Also, I'm also a little behind answering the reviews. Much thanks and love to everyone who's hung in here with me. I appreciate it!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

**_Chapter 20 - these are my friends, see how they glisten… _**

Earlier Bobby watched John Winchester as he walked down the hall, towards the side exit. John moved easily enough. His walk was loose and easy, and his eyes were clear. Anybody who didn't know any better would think that John was unmoved by the sight of his eldest son lying on that gurney inside the containment cell.

Then again Bobby knew that most people were damned idjits who couldn't see what was right in front of them. Bobby saw how John's hands shook slightly, saw the curiously blank look on his face. He was holding himself in, holding it all in. John Winchester the father was an emotional wreck. He needed some time alone to switch to John Winchester the hunter. He was the one Dean needed right now.

Grief and anger rolled off Sam Winchester in waves. Sure enough, Sam grabbed at John's arm as John passed by, and that was when Bobby decided to stick his nose in the Winchester business.

He was prepared to draw back with a bloody stump for a nose or a hand.

Sam frowned. "Dad? We have to talk about this---"

Bobby put his hand on Sam's arm.

"Sam," Bobby whispered roughly. "Don't. Leave him be for now, son."

The dirty look Sam shot at him was razor sharp; Bobby was surprised he didn't bleed from it. Sam was even more hyper now, barely contained, because of Dean, but the boy settled himself, turned back and sat down in the hallway directly opposite the cell in which his older brother lay. He sat down with his back against the wall as Bobby glanced at his watch and Caleb got up to stretch his legs.

Twenty minutes. That ougtha be long enough. Plenty of time.

Bobby waited, then waited another ten minutes, just to be sure. Then he pushed himself off the wall and slowly walked outside. He heard John before he saw him, and what Bobby heard was good.

John sighed. "They're talking about putting a worm inside Dean's head, Jim. He'll be alive but brain damaged. I need better options than that."

Winchester sounded firm and in control. Bobby cleared his throat loudly, very loudly, before he turned the corner.

"Elias Bishop, huh? Uh huh. Call me as soon as he calls you back," John nodded as soon as he saw Bobby, and he flipped the phone shut and slipped it back into his back pocket. "How's Dean?"

"About the same. Kid's hanging in there. Sam too."

"Christ Almighty." John shook his head ruefully. "What a mess." He looked directly at Bobby. John's eyes were a little red, bloodshot. "I got three days, Singer. Three days to pull something outta my ass that will save Dean, and frankly I don't have a fucking clue right now."

"I heard the part about the worm when I was walking up." Bobby jerked his head towards the front of the Pierson's house. A line creased the space between his eyes. "That the only thing they could come up with?"

"So far. Didn't know the clock was running until now. I put in some calls to some folks I know, people who owe me favors. Told them to call everyone they knew. Told 'me otherwise I was gonna show up on their doorstep with my shotgun."

Bobby huffed a laugh. "Special loads or regular buckshot?"

John's grin was sly, wicked. "Both. I'm one flexible son of a bitch."

They both chuckled at that one. It was black humor, graveyard humor, anything to settle the nerves, and they both knew it. For a moment, just a moment, they could forget about how Dean looked, crouched cat-like on the ground, his face filled with a wild beauty, his wide green eyes faded to light grey.

"What do you think Dean would want?" Bobby drawled quietly. "For himself, I mean?"

John actually looked puzzled. He took a deep breath that made his chest hitch slightly. "Damned if I know. He locks everything up deep inside, uses that loud, smart ass thing of his as a cover. He thinks I don't know that, but I do. I walked in on him taping his ribs up after this black dog hunt six months ago. Didn't even know he'd been hurt. He told me that he didn't want to worry me, that I had enough every day to worry about." John's eyes unfocused a little. He shook his head. "He's my son and if you put a gun to my head I couldn't tell you what he'd want for himself."

"Did I ever tell you about my wife, Ellie?" Bobby said it casually enough, but the meaning behind it was anything but. John nodded. He already knew the story, but if it eased his mind and Bobby's to hear it again, so be it.

"The demon inside her was a vicious sonofabitch. I wasn't a hunter then. Just some stupid bastard who didn't know that shadows in the world have teeth. Even if I had known what I was looking at, it might have ended the same way it did, with her dying. Took me a lotta years to finally forgive myself for that. A lotta years. My point is this: Ellie couldn't tell me what was going on with her, or what she wanted. Dean can't tell you what he wants now. You gotta decide, John. It's your call."

John straightened up, looked attentive, and it really surprised Bobby that this stubborn prickly sumbitch listened to what he said. "You gotta trust yourself enough to know that you're doing right by Dean. I'm not saying it's easy, 'cause it's not. It won't be. Whatever you wanna do, I've got your back, and Caleb does too. Sammy? He's not gonna like anything you do, so I wouldn't even worry about that."

"Damn good lecture, Singer."

Bobby nodded sagely. "I try."

"Sam doesn't trust me," John said softly. "He thinks I'm gonna get him and Dean killed."

"He told you that?"

"Not in so many words. Told me that I couldn't save Mary. If I couldn't save her, then I can't save Dean. According to Sammy either I bring Dean home from this hunt alive and well, or I don't come back at all." John grunted. "I sure screwed the pooch on that one, huh?'

"He's a kid, John. He's supposed to be dumb. You don't have that luxury."

"Damn right I don't." John frowned and pulled his cell out of his back pocket. He scowled at the phone. "Forgot I had it on vibrate," he grumbled darkly. "Hello?"

"Hey, Winchester. John Kearney. Ghúl hunt. Trenton, New Jersey, remember?"

"Yeah." John nodded. There was a hard edge to his voice. _Get to the fucking point._

"Marsters called me about your Handmaiden problem. I put in a call to somebody who's had experience dusting those bitches."

"I'm listening."

"She wants in."

"She?"

"Yep. Her name's Lussier. Eugenia Lussier. She's up in New York City now, but when I told her about your problem she told me you gotta call her back. Right the hell now. Says she started packing her bags as soon as she heard the word 'Handmaiden'."

John sighed. _Eugenia._ _What the hell._ He suddenly had an image of some addled little old grey haired lady who collected bugs in glass jars. "This doesn't have anything to do with earwigs, does it?"

"What? Bugs? Hell no. She's real hands on. Way I hear it, she's psychic. Went into this vic's head with a hunting party. Cleaned out a nest of those bitches." Kearney snorted. "It was personal. The victim was her brother."

"Did he survive?"

"Yep. Good as new."

"I owe you one, then. Thanks."

Kearney laughed. "Don't thank me just yet. You might be cussing my name after you meet this chick."

* * *

It wasn't so bad.

Mom was inside him now, filling all the holes eaten away inside him.

_Eaten_. Dean tried not to laugh at that. _S'funny. _

He sat up straight with his back against the wall, and he looked around with new eyes. They were light grey now. He didn't even have to look in a mirror to know _that_.

All the stuff inside all those rooms,

"…_gotta figure out a way to pay for this, boy…"_

...the things he actually did,

"…_take it out in trade…"_

and the dark things that he thought about,

_Not fair. We hunt things and save people, and this sorry bastard's looking at us like we're dirt._

...the things he wanted to do, the bad things that he didn't do,

_I could take the money. We need it more than they do… _

He could look at it all now. The sights and sounds didn't bother him and he wondered why it bothered him before.

He felt stronger now.

Before his belly was filled up with this awful gnawing that crawled out of his belly, up his throat, filled his head with images of good red meat that screamed and begged.

The hunger inside him was different now. Dean thought about sleek pale skin, thought about how it would be to taste it with his mouth and fingers. The skin over his belly was stretched too tight now, too tight and too snug over his hipbones.

Minnie scratched at the front door again, like some oversized housecat that wanted in. Dean felt his skin vibrate in response.

He moved so quickly he didn't remember walking down the hall, didn't remember undoing the locks, or opening the door.

"Deaann," Minnie purred softly as she looked around, wide-eyed. "Love what you've done with the place."

Dean didn't answer. He hooked his right hand around the back of her head, pulled her close, and bruised her mouth with his. He rubbed against her, slow and easy.

"You're not mad at us anymore?" Minnie gasped breathily as Dean kissed his way down her jaw, down the long line of her neck.

Dean shook his head.

"Mom around?"

"Gone." Dean placed both hands, one on each hip, and pulled her even closer.

"Good." Minnie smiled. "She was a killjoy anyway."

She slid both hands down, pushed her fingers down underneath the waistband of Dean's jeans. Her palms were flat against his hipbones. She dug her fingernails into Dean's skin.

"You really wanna talk about my family at a time like this?" Dean whispered roughly. Lambchop and Bugs crouched at the open door, while Misty, Albert and Tallulah hung further back, nervously waiting for Mary Winchester to show.

She didn't.

Lambchop took one hesitant step inside, and when nothing happened to her Bugs followed, as did the rest. They slunk around Dean, rubbed up against him, and this time he craved their touch, didn't try to pull away, didn't curse at them.

"Good boy," Minnie murmured. "Oh, you're our beautiful, good boy now…"

Dean purred in response.

They were _his_ now, and he was _theirs_, now and forever. They loved him and they would never, ever leave. ANd with a little luck, he would make sure that Dad and Sam wouldn't leave either. Then he'd have them inside him, just like he had Mom.

One big happy family.

* * *

Clay Pierson felt that familiar knot between his eyes that told him that another tension headache was coming on. He rolled his shoulders and willed the tension away. He was excited at the prospect of what the next few days would hold.

John Winchester and his sons. _Damn._

Ida stepped away from the door. "It's clear."

Clay nodded. He slid open the bottom desk drawer and carefully took the glass jar out. The earwig was about three inches long, elongated, flattened, a dull reddish brown in color.

_Labidura obcaecati,_ not _Arnexiina obcaecati._ There _was_ a difference. A _big _one. This little beauty wouldn't stop to feast on just the poisoned parts of Dean Winchester's brain. It was feast or famine with this one. Once it started eating it wouldn't, _couldn't_ stop.

It flailed around with its legs as it tried to climb up. It tapped its pincers insistently against the glass.

It was hungry. And in two days time, it would be _ravenous_.

Ida huffed. "I might talk to his Dad some more. Just to see if I can stir things up. And that younger brother? Oh, he's perfect. We still have to be careful, dear. They're not stupid. They're hunters, not like those civilians we toyed with the last time. We can torment them, but we have to be smart about it. Maybe Dean's condition should worsen, just a little, just enough to keep his family focused on him while we make our move."

Pierson's features softened as he looked at his dear wife. People mistook her for being harsh and stern, but she was the kindest one between the two of them. His better half.

"Of course, you do that. After all," Clay smiled thinly as his eyes flared pitch black. "We're here to help."

* * *

TBC


	21. the untroubled sleep of angels

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title taken from the final scene of _Sweeney Todd, _by Stephen Sondheim. 209 reviews. Good Lord! You guys are scaring the hell out of me! I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. And now we're going to take a little trip into the subconscious of one Samuel Winchester, as he dreams what life would be like with his mentally impaired brother, Dean.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment purposes, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 21 - sleep now the untroubled sleep of the angels **_

John frowned as he snapped his cell phone shut. "Huh."

Bobby stared at him. "What?" It took him a minute or two to realize that John was looking puzzled, which was a totally new look for him.

"That was the weirdest damn conversation I ever had."

"Who? That Lussier woman?"

"Yep. Said she needed to hear my voice to tell whether this was on the level or not. Said some other things, too…" John's eyes unfocused for the barest second. It had been a pretty one-sided conversation. John could be prickly at times, especially when it came to his boys, _both_ his boys, whether Dean and Sam believed that or not. Bobby didn't press for details.

Instead he pushed off the wall and fell in step beside John as he walked down the gangway, back to the house. "So this is the plan, huh?" Bobby growled roughly. "We're gonna go inside Dean's head and kill the bitches."

"Best thing I can think of. I can't go with that damn bug the Piersons are pushing. " John shook his head. " I can't."

Bobby grinned a little as John finally realized something. "Wait a minute. You said _we're _gonna go inside. Sure you want in on this, Bobby?"

"Now that is a hell of a thing to say to me," the older man snapped. "I said I would, Winchester. Dean's a good kid. Anyway, sounds like a three person job, you idjit."

John made a huffing noise as he pulled open the screen door. "Funny thing is, that's exactly what she said."

* * *

Sam was vaguely aware when John and Bobby walked back into the hallway. They softened their footsteps as they got close, and Sam knew any other time Dad would probably rag on him for being asleep at the switch.

He could still feel the wall at his back, still feel Caleb sitting quietly beside him on the floor. He was just so damn tired…all he needed was a couple of minutes, just to close his eyes, to rest, that's all.

Sam could still hear the soft beeping of Dean's heart monitor. He hated the sound, but at the same time he was glad to hear it. That meant that Dean was still here, still alive, still breathing.

Dad hadn't fucked _that_ up. Not _yet_ anyway.

Sam kept his eyes closed and his breathing deepened, and he could feel it when somebody, John maybe, gently draped that thin blanket around him. If they touched him, he would wake up. If they tried to pick him up, if Dad tried to, tried to be a father and put him to bed in that spare room down the hall, Sam promised himself he was gonna wake up and beat the hell out of whoever, because he wasn't leaving Dean.

Not now, not ever.

They loosely tucked the blanket around him, and then they let him be.

Sam drifted. The most important sound in the hallway was the most awful one, the most irritating one, the one that Sam prayed would never, ever stop.

It was the hunter's lullaby all over again.

He wasn't talking about music. That was Dean's gig. Sam had written a paper on it, about the sounds in a person's life that folks never even noticed until life changed and the sounds were gone. Sam lied, of course, wasn't about to tell his teacher about hunting, so he renamed it the lullaby of life.

The real lullaby, the hunter's lullaby, was the rumble of the Impala on the highway at night, equally matched by John's and Dean's voices, each one just as deep and whiskey smooth, as they discussed hunts while they thought Sam lay sleeping in the back bench; Dean or John grunting, biting back groans of pain as one stitched the other one up or set broken bones; Dean's labored breathing as he tried to sleep off the aftermath of a hunt that had gone south; the skritch of steel against sharpening stone, slow and hypnotic, the low scratch and murmur of late night television, turned down low, and the ones Sam absolutely hated the most: the whispers of the doctor and the nursing staff, the whir and beep of a heart monitor or a respirator. Sam had heard it many times before, and it was reason enough why he couldn't wait to get the hell away from this life.

So Sam changed some of it in the paper he wrote, made it into mundane stuff. Traffic sounds, the sound of loved ones breathing, whispered conversations; he even kept the part about the television down low. That was normal enough.

His teacher, Mrs. Washburn, thought the paper was good enough for an H+. That was one paper that Sam didn't show Dean, and he felt kinda bad about that, as if he were shutting Dean out somehow. Who helped Sam with his homework, had all along? Dean did. Who was there for Sam, twenty four seven, all the time? Dean.

Dean deserved normal, and that was exactly what Dean _wasn't_ gonna get.

Not even in Sam's dreams.

* * *

Sam dreamed about the worst day in his life.

Dean was strapped down when the Piersons put the worm into his right ear. Sam stood there quietly, and he hated.

He hated the Piersons, the fucking worm, he even hated Uncle Bobby, Pastor Jim and Caleb for going along with this, for failing to find another way.

But above all, Sam hated John Winchester with a deep, abiding hatred.

Dean lay quiet, pale and still. He didn't stir until the earwig slid its way inside. Sam couldn't see it anymore, but he stood there, he bore silent witness. He saw when Dean's eyes jerked open, wild and feral.

Light, pale grey instead of green.

Dean bucked against the straps. His fingers hooked into claws, slashing uselessly at the top sheet of the gurney. His lips skinned away from his teeth, and he snarled.

Dean made noises.

Dean begged.

He stared at them, eyes tracking from John--

"Dad…please…please…"

to Sam

"…Sammy, don't let them do this to me…"

to Bobby to Caleb and back again.

"…please…no…no…"

The color of Dean's eyes was so light and colorless he almost seemed to be blind. He wasn't.

Sam could tell the exact moment when the earwig started eating.

Because that was when Dean flinched, closed his eyes, arched up against the straps and started screaming.

He screamed. He howled. Most of it wasn't even words anymore. Sam could pick out words…maybe "nuh" meant "no". "Daddd" was clear enough.

And so was "SSammmy".

_It's a dream,_ Sam told himself. _That's all this is. _So Sam stood there in the dream, silent, watching, as his oldest brother Dean jerked and twitched, as the bug inside Dean's head ate and ate and then ate some more.

It came out the other end hours later, crawled out of Dean's left ear and plopped out onto the gurney, fat and sated, covered in blood and bits of grey brain matter. Dean was still breathing by that time, drawing in great lungfuls of air that made his throat and chest hitch.

His eyes were half open then, a dull muddy green.

The last thing Dad did before they left the Piersons was to salt and burn the worm in the jar. It was the only thing the old man got right, Sam thought.

Too damn little, too damn late.

* * *

The lullaby changed, and so did the dream.

They said goodbye to Pastor Jim, Caleb and Bobby, and headed out.

Sam watched John like a hawk. Sam didn't care that most days John's shoulders were slumped, as if in defeat. Sam didn't care that he could see pain in John's eyes whenever he looked at his sons, especially what remained of his eldest son. Sam didn't care about any of this. Dean was like this because of John, because of the fucking hunt. Because Dad wanted vengeance for Mary Winchester, and Sam didn't even remember what she looked like.

Dean didn't say very much anymore, and Sam really missed that. He missed the wicked gleam in his brother's eye, that slightly crooked smirk, the blinding smile that Dean cut loose with every once in a while, if he was looking at a pretty girl, or a cool car, or a weapon. Sam missed the rumble of Dean's voice. He missed Metallica, AC/DC, and Zeppelin.

Fucking worm. Sam missed Dean.

Before Dean moved cat-quick, fast and usually lethal; now he was slow and clumsy. He was always bumping into things, had bruises on both sides of his body, from his shoulders down his thighs. His eyes were a slightly glassy green, and whatever Dean saw in his world he kept it to himself. He knew a few words, words that stayed with him, like "Dad" and "Sam" and "sorry."

One day they were sitting at a picnic bench in a rest stop in Idaho somewhere. Dean dropped an open bottle of water and it sloshed all over his jeans and workboots.

Dean cringed. "Sorry." He whispered roughly. "Sorry."

_Sorry I'm like this?_

_Sorry I messed up that last hunt?_

"You don't have to say that, Dean," Sam told him as he picked up the half empty bottle. "You don't_ ever_ have to say that."

Dean stared blankly at Sam, just as John walked over to them. "Sorry," Dean breathed softly, and both Sam and John flinched a little.

And then there were the bad days, full of nothingness. Dean stared blankly into space then, and he wouldn't respond until the morning of the next day. It was like a switch inside him had been re-set. He could bathe himself then, and dress himself on days like that, as long as it wasn't anything more complicated than jeans and a t shirt.

Sam had to help him tie the laces to his boots. Dean got confused with the knots.

He liked to sit and watch. Birds and squirrels mostly. He didn't seem to be all that interested in people anymore. Dean stared at them and through them, like he was seeing something that no one else could see.

He ate, slowly, haltingly. He couldn't cut his own food with a knife, was awkward using a fork. Dean jabbed himself in his lower lip with a fork once, while they were sitting in a diner near Indianapolis, and there was no reaction, no yelp of pain, no cuss words. Dean just sat there with blood streaming down his chin and onto his neck, and he didn't even flinch as John took the fork away from him and wiped the blood away from his mouth.

It was sandwiches for a while after that, and even after they were cut up for him, Dean seemed to forget they were on his plate.

He refused to wear his brown leather jacket anymore, and neither Sam nor John could figure out why.

* * *

Dad and Uncle Bobby talking in low hushed tones a few feet away. Sam knew he was still in the hallway next to the containment cell, knew that in real life Dean was still untouched by that earwig. Sam knew he was still dreaming, and the dream rolled on.

One month after they left the Piersons, one month after nearly everything that was Dean Winchester was eaten away to save his life, John, Sam and Dean Winchester settled down in Athens, Ohio.

John got a job as a night watchman at Ohio University. Sam went to high school. And Dean? Well, he had good days, bad days, and nothing days, as usual. Either Sam or John were always there to watch him, always there to be with him. John during the day, and Sam at night.

Sam wasn't fooled. He watched John for signs that the old man was on the hunt. Everyone knew about Haunted Athens. Wilson Hall and Room 428, The Ridges and the West State Angel. Sam was prepared to rip into John if he saw any sign that Dad was on the hunt while he was at work.

There were no signs at all, no salt in his duffel, no flasks of holy water, just that defeated look in John's eyes.

The dream shifted, and Sam found that he was taller than Dean, taller, larger and broader, and that bothered him somehow. Dean was smaller, softer somehow. He recognized Sam most of the time, John a little less. Dean was content to sit on the front porch of the little house John bought for the three of them and watch the world pass by.

It was their routine, a new lullaby, night after night. No more discussions about hunting, no metallic sounds of weapons being cleaned and oiled. No more sounds of flesh being stitched up, or bones being set, no more kitchen medic stuff.

Sam read stories to Dean, some of them made up in his head, some of them from books. Some of them were about a brave young hunter with dark blond hair and green eyes. Dean seemed to like those stories, but he never seemed to make the connection.

It went on until the day Sam got that full scholarship to Ohio University. His hands shook as he opened the acceptance letter, and he sat down on the porch swing with a thump. Dean sat on the other end, but he didn't mind.

Dean didn't mind much of anything, these days.

Sam could hear the beep of Dean's heart monitor, dim at first in the distance, then getting louder. He knew he would be awake in another minute or two.

He couldn't put a name to this dream before, realized he didn't want to. It was easy to blame Dad, easy to condemn him. They didn't argue anymore. All it took was one look at Dean and John acted the way Sam wanted him to.

Sam's whole body shook, and dream Dean just stared at him blankly. They'd stayed in one place for four years, had a home for the first time since Mary died, but Dean was too out of it most days to notice. No more hunting, not now, not ever.

This was normal.

And Sam hated himself for wanting it, even enjoying it, because Dean paid the price.

Sam jerked awake, and the first thing he saw was Dean still lying pale and still in the containment cell. The beeping of Dean's heart monitor filled Sam's ears, echoed inside his head, cramped his stomach up, hard and brutal. He was going to be sick. Violently, openly sick.

Sam threw off the blanket and blindly stumbled for the bathroom down the hall.

* * *

Next installment will be posted this week.


	22. my cage has many rooms

_**A/N:**_ I have put a curse on my internet provider. So if you live in the St. Louis area be warned.

_**A/N #2:**_ Chapter title taken from _Green Finch and Linnet Bird _by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_).

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

**Chapter 22 – my cage has many rooms **

Deanlay on his side in the upstairs bedroom of his memory house. It was nice to have a home for once, even if the home happened to be inside his head. It was real enough, good enough for now. The things he saw in the other rooms of the house, the things he'd done and thought about didn't bother him anymore. He didn't even wonder why they ever had.

Minnie was curled around him. Tallulah, Bugs, Misty, Lambchop and Albert took up the rest of the space on the bed, draped over each other and Dean and Minnie.

There was a time when he would have fought all of this, wouldn't have wanted their weight on him.

That time was past. He was free.

Minnie smiled to herself as she stroked his bare shoulders, ran her fingers up his neck and finally smudged his lower lip with her thumb.

"Mother was right about you," Minnie whispered. "You are a prize." Dean kissed and licked at the tips of her fingers. He didn't mind the way her mouth tasted when he kissed her, a promise of blood, slick and copper. He fell asleep, drifted off into the darkness gratefully. It felt like home.

Dean dreamed of blood.

And meat. Fresh, warm and screaming.

Another home, in another state, someplace warm, like New Mexico, or California. Maybe even Florida. They'd follow the sun this time.

Everything tasted better when it was warm. Even in dreams.

Dean walked up to the house and knocked on the door. The woman who answered was older, about Dad's age, but her skin was smooth and she looked like she was still in pretty good shape. Not much fat on her, which was good.

Lambchop and Tallulah tended to be fussy about stuff like that. They didn't like "old meat."

Albert would eat any and everything.

Dean flashed a blinding smile at the woman of the house when she answered the door. He turned on the charm. He always did clean up nicely, and he knew damn well the effect his looks had on people. He looked like he belonged in the Great State of Normal, and he lied smoothly, easily. His car had broken down on the highway, and his cell phone was on the fritz.

"I don't mean to bother you, ma'm. Won't take up much of your time. May I use your phone?"

Within a minute or two Dean was standing in the living room.

Nice place. Expensive digs.

Dean was on the woman before she even knew what was happening. She whimpered as he tied her up, but she wasn't a problem. Not at all.

The kitchen was large, stocked with just about every condiment and cooking utensil Dean could ever imagine. The stove was a Master Chief Electric Wall Oven.

With double capacity. Damn thing was like a cave.

Sweet.

There was even a large propane grill on the back deck, but Dean decided not to use that. No sense in alarming the neighbors. Misty started grumbling about wanting barbeque. She kept on whining until Minnie snarled at her.

The woman's husband and teenage daughter came home an hour later.

Bugs and Lambchop played with their food. Dean allowed it. There was more than enough food for the next three days, anyway.

Dean smiled to himself in his sleep and pulled Minnie a little closer to him.

…_when you eat, we all eat, sweet boy…_

It was good to dream about a better life.

The best part was that Sam and Dad and Bobby and Caleb were going to try to save him. That meant they still cared about him, that was why they hadn't shot him in the head. They shot to wound, not to kill.

And if they made that mistake, they might make another.

* * *

The scene in the hallway hadn't changed much when Sam came back from the bathroom. He'd rinsed his mouth out repeatedly, but his throat and mouth was still clotted with the sour taste of the sandwich he'd thrown up. The corners of his eyes felt gritty. He'd splashed water on his face before he came back out. Nothing he did seemed to be working.

Huh. Imagine that. Just another day in the life of Sam Winchester.

Sam stepped past Caleb, glanced at Uncle Bobby. Uncle Bobby sat in that straight-backed wooden chair five feet away. He was between Sam and John, and as far as Sam was concerned there was nothing worth looking at past Bobby. John was an illusion, a black hole, a waste of space.

"Hey, Sammy?" John murmured softly.

The look Sam gave him was pointed, almost angry: _Why the hell are you whispering, Dad? If it wasn't for you fucking up big time we wouldn't even be here._

Sam blinked.

…_D-Dad-d…please…_

He shook his head a little to get rid of the sounds Dean made in the dream, as the earwig ate its fill of Dean's brain.

…_please…n-no…nuh…_

John ignored the look, which only pissed Sam off even more. "Sam? You okay?"

Sam nodded. He hugged his knees to his chest, hunched his shoulders up around his shoulders, and went back to staring at Dean in the cell.

Ten minutes later John's cell went off. John pushed off from the wall, pulled his cell out of his jeans pocket and headed for the exit door.

"Jim? Yeah?"

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes. Another worthless phone call, then. Pastor Jim calling to say that nothing was working, and _it would seem, John, that the worm the Piersons were talking about are our only option. _

Bastards. They were all bastards, all of them, the fucking Piersons, the fucking worm, even Uncle Bobby and Caleb. Dean didn't_ need_ this. Dean didn't _deserve _this. It was just another classic John Winchester fuck-up. He couldn't keep Mom safe.

_He can't keep us safe, either._

And the thing was, the only plan Sam could come up, leaving with Dean, well, that was like locking the barn door after the horse inside was long gone. Even if he came up with a plan of his own, Sam knew that unless he could somehow prove the Piersons didn't know what the hell they were doing, no one would listen to him.

No one.

Sam's stomach clenched, tight and painfully. He wanted to hit someone, somebody. If not John, then anyone else would do.

Five minutes later Sam got his wish.

* * *

Ida glanced up when she heard the footsteps in the hallway. She was the quick-witted one, always ready with a plausible sounding lie that tugged at the heartstrings, confused the humans and left them vulnerable. Ida watched intently as John Winchester strode past. He had his phone to his ear; he kept going, out the exit door.

"Well? I'm getting bored now, dear." Ida smiled thinly. "I think it's time to stir things up. Give young Dean some tender loving care."

Clay smiled, his eyes their usual mild brown color again instead of pitch black. "Have anything special in mind?"

"Special? No, dear. We'll keep this simple for now."

"Good."

* * *

"I'm afraid the news isn't good, John," Pastor Jim said gravely. "Elias Bishop called me back. He's hit a dead end."

John grunted. "You ever heard of a psychic by the name of Eugenia Lussier? John Kearney called me about her."

"Eugenia Lussier?" Jim Murphy said quietly. "Yes, I've heard of her."

"She's coming. Says she wants to help Dean." There was quiet on the other end. Too much quiet. John thought the call had been dropped. "Hello? Jim, you still there?"

"Yes. I'm here." That quiet, subdued tone in Jim Murphy's voice raised the hair on the back of John's neck.

"What's going on? We're on the clock. I need to know everything I can about this woman before she gets here."

Pastor Jim sighed. "Eugenia and I have a history."

"Okay. So?"

"She feels I was responsible for her brother being overtaken by the Handmaidens in the first place."

* * *

What the hell.

Sam stared as Ida and Clay Pierson came out of the office. He glared at them both, and the first thing Sam did was stare at their hands. No jars, no earwigs, just what seemed to be a small black leather bound Bible in the woman's hand.

Sam sat up a little straighter against the wall. He glared at them both anyway. He didn't care for that pitying look the woman gave him.

Uncle Bobby stood up. "Something wrong?"

"Wrong?" Clay Pierson said. "Oh, no. We just want to check Dean's vitals."

"Thought it wasn't safe to be around him," Bobby grunted. Caleb got to his feet and came over.

"We've taking precautions," Ida murmured softly. She lifted the book up so that Bobby and Caleb could get a good look at it. "This is the sacred text of St. Nicolai the Elder. I'm going to place this on Dean's chest. It will contain him long enough for me to examine him."

"And we have these," Clay Pierson said. He hooked a finger inside his shirt collar and pulled out a small silver medallion on a black leather cord. Ida did the same.

Bobby and Caleb nodded, seemingly satisfied.

Sam's eyes narrowed dangerously.

…_please, no…don't…_

But he sat there and waited.

… _S-Sammy-y…_

He waited as Clay Pierson removed the key to Dean's cell from his shirt pocket.

…_.don't let them do this to me…_

He waited as the door was opened, and Bobby and Caleb stood at one side out in the hallway. Sam waited until the Piersons were standing at Dean's side inside the cell.

And then Sam got up and moved.

Sam moved fast, walked right past Bobby and Caleb. Caleb noticed first. Sam felt Caleb's fingers skate down his left arm, and he jerked away from the touch.

He was inside the cell, right up in the Pierson's faces before they even knew it. They blinked at him stupidly, and Sam felt rage heat up his skin. Dean was so still, so pale as he lay on the gurney. The heart monitor beeped, slow and steady.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" Sam snapped. He glanced at their hands. Still no earwig.

Didn't matter.

Clay Pierson frowned. "You're not supposed to be in here, young man."

"It's safe now, right? You took precautions." Sam drawled with more than a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "What are you doing to my brother?"

"I'm checking his vitals," Ida said calmly. "You have to step outside and let us work."

"Sam!" It was Bobby, standing in the doorway. "What the hell are you doing, boy?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm just keeping an eye on the doctors here. I want to see what they're doing to Dean."

"Now, Samuel," Clay said. Sam's eyes had this dangerous glint, and Pierson kept right on talking. "We understand you're worried about your brother. You have to let us work now." He leaned out and did the one thing he never should have.

He touched Sam on the shoulder, like he was some damn kid.

Sam's right hand curled up in a fist.

* * *

It was summertime in the dream, always summertime. The living was easy, life was good. They stayed in some places for a week. Never longer than that. Meat was everywhere, in hotels, in cities and towns, walking and driving down the highways and roads without a care. The world was big, wide and open, and the scent of so much food, so much meat made Dean's mouth water.

The dream changed. Scents changed.

Minnie and the others were agitated, and Dean could feel it. He sensed something in the air, something equally dark as he was now, and he bared his teeth at it, even while he was asleep.

Dean's nostrils flared as he picked up the scent. He wrinkled up his nose. Rotten meat. Two of them by the smell. Strangers. But the other one…the other one was familiar.

Familiar and young and guilty and oh so worried. Afraid _for _Dean, when he should be afraid _of _him.

Sammy.

* * *

John closed his eyes, pinched at the bridge of his nose and then opened his eyes again.

"Okay. So you warned her dumb brother against hunting Handmaidens alone, and the stupid sonofabitch did it anyway. Why is that your fault again?"

"It just is. At least, Eugenia thinks it is."

"Right now I don't give a damn what she thinks about you. Is she good? Did she really take a hunting party inside his head and wipe the nest out?"

"Apparently so. She's very fierce. I knew she wouldn't help if I called her. I actually thought we had other options at the time, which is why I didn't suggest you call her. I apologize for that."

"Why? She probably wouldn't have come if you called her. Okay. Bobby and I are going in with her. Caleb's gonna have our backs on the outside."

"John? Keep an eye on her."

"Why?" John barked as he turned for the door.

"Just do it, will you?"

"Okay." John pulled the door open with the handle. He heard the noise inside before he saw anything.

"_Son of a bitch, get off me, get the hell off me ---"_

It was Sam. Pissed off. And fearful.

"Dean! DEAN!"

John ran inside.

Everything seemed to slow down, like it always does when things go south. Bobby staggered back into the wall, but he still held Sam by the shoulders. Sam squirmed and twisted. A part of him wanted to turn around and kick Bobby's ass, but John knew Sam liked Bobby.

Who knew how long _that _was gonna last.

Caleb stood between the Piersons and Sam, but John had no doubt that if Bobby let go, Sam would kick his ass too.

Judging by the bruises on Clay Pierson's face, the blood caked around his nose, Sam had already started.

Sam glared at the Piersons, but he kept glancing over his shoulder at the cell.

John felt his stomach drop, express elevator, all the way down to his feet.

_Dean._

He bulled his way past Caleb and the Piersons, and what he saw in the cell made him stop dead in his tracks. John saw his eldest son's high cheekbones, saw that familiar spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

Dean crouched forward, on his knees, peering around the edge of the overturned gurney. He had the sheet pulled around him; it made a hood around his head as he crouched forward, cast his features into shadow.

He looked scared. Wide-eyed and confused.

And those wide green eyes of his were green. Not light grey.

* * *

TBC. This week. Real soon. Real _real _soon.

I'm not quoting a day to post anymore. Every time I do that internet service goes south. They have spies in the walls.

Yeahhh, that's it.

Scurries off to build aluminum helmet to shield my thoughts…


	23. young man with mischief on his mind

_**A/N:**_ No, you're not seeing double. I call do-over. This is a re-write of the chapter I posted last week. First time this has ever happened during one of my fics, but I have no excuse. I was in a hurry and all excited about Kazcon, and I wrote the first one and posted and didn't notice that there was a plot hole in it big enough to drive a Mack truck thru. When I read the chapter again I just. Hated. It. That's the last time I rush to post something just to be posting. Anywoo, I really appreciate all the folks who read that chapter last week. I always love reading your reviews. Ya'll were too kind, but IT SUCKED. This one is better._ Much_ better.

Oh, the chapter title is from _Alms Alms_, by Stephen Sondheim _(Sweeney Todd)._

_**Disclaimer:**_ As always, I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit, damn it.

* * *

_**Chapter 23 – young man with mischief on his mind**_

Sam snarled wordlessly and jerked out of his grip. Bobby let him go.

Sam glared up at the back of his father's head as he passed behind him, made a point of going wide, to stand as far away from John as he could while keeping Dean in sight in the cell, but Bobby didn't notice. He was focused on John.

Bobby knew trouble when he saw it.

John Winchester softened when he saw Dean like that, when he saw his eldest son, all pale and confused and helpless, sitting on the floor behind the gurney with that sheet wrapped around him.

"They were touching me," Dean mumbled. "I woke up and they were touching me." He drew the sheet around himself tighter, as if he were cold, and he flinched as his injured shoulder apparently flared up in protest.

"Dean?" John whispered. He stepped close to the glass wall etched with containment symbols, raised his right hand and pressed his palm flat against it. "Son?"

Dean hunched over, clutching the sheet even tighter around him. He mumbled something, and no one could hear.

Then he raised his head up, stared directly at John and Sam. "Sorry. 'm sorry."

John 's shoulders trembled, then sagged. Sam had a different reaction: he took a small step back.

They were small motions, but it was enough. They were caught, the both of them.

_Hell,_ Bobby thought to himself. _We're in deep now._

He'd seen this before, seen…things wearing the faces of loved ones, using the voices to lure them in. It was enough, and the critters knew it, knew that was enough to make even the most hardened hunter hesitate, leave themselves wide open. Dean wasn't cured, but all John could see were those wide green eyes, those ridiculously long dark eyelashes, so much like Mary Winchester's. John was blinded by hope, the hope that his boy was back. Green eyes instead of light grey. Perfect way to sucker John and Sam in.

If it had been anyone else, John would have rolled his eyes._ How fucking stupid do you think I am?_

But he didn't. He couldn't. Not this time.

Bobby knew. He knew the look. Sam quivered in place like an eager hound on a leash. John was one step away from unlatching the door.

One step away from getting them all killed.

The revolver underneath Bobby's plaid shirt suddenly weighed heavier than it had all evening. He glanced at Caleb, and something in the younger man's eyes flickered. He nodded slightly.

_I'll follow your lead. Can't let 'em open that door. _

Sam and the Piersons didn't seem to notice. Clay Pierson made a snuffling sound as he put a handkerchief to his bloody nose. Ida Pierson stood quietly by with her hand on her husband's arm and shoulder.

Bobby was closer. He could get to John first, and when he did he'd have to hope that he could lay him out, put him down on the floor. Caleb could restrain Sam.

Or at least, he could try to.

_Damn Winchesters,_ Bobby thought sourly to himself. Coming between Dean and John and Sam like that was sure to mean some broken bones, and that was best case scenario.

Dean drew a deep shuddering breath. "Woke up…" he raised his eyes, looked around. Either the light or the containment symbols made him squint. "Woke up and they were touching me…" Dean mumbled dazedly. "Didn't mean to fuck up that last hunt…"

"Dean, you didn't…" Sam muttered softly.

"Why'd you let them do that to me, huh?"

"The Piersons were just checking your vitals," John said softly. "They're here to help. You weren't…you weren't well, bud."

_Weren't well? __Bobby thought.__ Like he's all damn better now? _He kept his face blank, took one small step closer. Caleb did the same.

Dean's eyes widened. "Help me?" His breath rattled in his chest. John nodded.

"Dad…they're…they're demons…"

Clay and Ida Pierson stood very, very still. The word was on everyone's lips, but Sam beat them all. Sam stepped around John, locked his eyes on the Piersons like a gunsight. "Christo."

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

Crap, Sam grumbled to himself. He ignored the sharp look John gave him and glared right back at him.

"Can't you see it?" Dean rocked back and forth. "Can't you tell?"

"Dean, they're not—" John began. "Dean, it's okay---"

"It's not okay. It's not…" Dean wheezed. He sounded young, younger than Sam even, young and bewildered at John's words and logic. "You say there's something wrong with me but you listen to what some friggin' demons tell you?"

"Dean, I'm not ---"

"I get it. I do. I fucked up, okay? " Dean's voice rose, weak and shaky. "I FUCKED UP AND 'M PAYIN' FOR IT…just like…just I did in Fort Douglas. Gotta pay for my mistakes." His eyes unfocused and he rocked back and forth. "gotta pay...pay for my mistakes…"

"You son of a bitch," Sam said out loud.

_Christ…_Bobby shook his head. _Damn kid never could shut the hell up…_

John's head snapped around. "_What_ did you say?'

"You heard me." Sam said pointedly. He glanced down, saw John's right hand curl up into a fist, and actually smiled a little, grimly. He wasn't going to back down, never mind that he and John had gone toe to toe two days ago and John had put Sam down, flat on his ass. "Helluva plan, Dad. Dean's like this because of you in the first place. You can't help him, so the best thing to do is just to lock him up, throw away the key? What, drop by from time to time and see how he's doing, for God's sake?"

John moved, fisted Sam's jacket and shirt. Sam's grin got even wider, and he raised his arms out to the sides as John slammed him backwards into the wall. The bruises and that smile made Sam seem creepily older than he really was. "You gonna beat me again, Dad? Go ahead. And after you do, won't change a damned thing."

Dean's voice, from inside the cell; it was almost a chant by now, lost, and confused: " …didn't mean to fuck everything up…didn't mean to…"

"All right, John." Bobby and Caleb were at John's side in a heartbeat. Bobby put his hand on John's arm and braced himself for the blow.

It didn't come. John released Sam, and stepped towards the door. Bobby moved to block him. "We got some things to discuss, you idjit." John scowled at the tone of Bobby's voice.

_Good. Get your attention off your sons. Focus on me, you jackass._

"Outside. Caleb, you mind looking after things here for a bit?"

Sam gave Bobby a dirty look. "Dean's not a thing," Sam snapped.

"Didn't say he was," Bobby said mildly. There was no heat in his voice. No way in hell Sam could get a rise out of him and they both knew it. "Now as I remember, you were supposed to behave yourself, or you had a date with Pastor Jim's basement. That can still be arranged, kid."

Sam grunted to himself, disgusted, then turned and pressed his nose to the glass so he could watch Dean.

Dean leaned against the gurney, eyes unfocused, lost in his own world.

Caleb shrugged casually, positioned himself between the Piersons and the cell door. "Sure."

"Ah, we still have to check his vitals," Ida Pierson murmured.

John glanced over his shoulder at Dean. The boy was rocking back and forth, eyes glazed. His lips moved, but no one could hear what he was saying.

Ida flinched a little when John turned back to her, scowling. "Later."

"But I --- "

"_Later._ You don't touch my boy. Not until I say you can."

Clay Pierson nudged his wife with one hand, held the bloody handkerchief to his nose with the other. "Honey---"

"Oh. I'm sorry." She turned to follow him back to the office.

"All right, Winchester, Let's take this outside," Bobby snapped roughly.

* * *

"Clever," Minnie purred softly. She hung over Dean, stroked his back and shoulders possessively. He leaned into her touch. "Such a clever boy, flashing your green eyes at them like that."

"They won't keep me in here," Dean whispered. "I'll get out. I will. You'll see."

"I know you will. And that little brother of yours…" Minnie shook her head ruefully.

"Sammy's going to leave me. First chance he gets, he's gonna leave me…"

"He's very smart. I bet he tastes good too."

"Sammy can't leave me. He can't." Dean rocked back and forth. "Everybody who loves me, leaves me. Mom left. Dad leaves me all the time."

"We won't leave you." Minnie planted a chaste kiss on the side of Dean's jaw "Never. We'll make sure that they both stay with us, forever and always, sweetness." She breathed into his skin. Dean closed his eyes. "Soon, Dean. Very, _very _soon."

* * *

"Well," Ida said dryly. "That went well."

"That little bastard," Clay snarled. He leaned into the mirror in the office bathroom, glared at the damage Sam caused. His nose was broken. Some of the bruises melted away almost instantly, and Ida made a clucking sound. "You heal too quick, they might just start thinking that the boy was right all along." She chuckled a little as she crossed her arms in front of her. "You know what? The others were right. These Winchesters are so much fun to play with."

"Fuck." Clay turned back to the mirror, and watched dark bruises bloom in his skin again. "I want to have a little quality time with that Winchester brat."

Ida laughed. "We'll have quality time with every last damn one of them, as slow and bloody as you like, but you have to calm down first. There's a time and a place for everything."

Clay blinked. His hazel eyes churned pitch black. "I want to hear him scream a little. Is that too much to ask?"

"In due time, dear." Ida smiled. "You can have your fun."

* * *

John growled as soon as he and Bobby got outside. "Son of a bitch!"

Bobby glanced down and saw John's right hand curl up into a fist. "You wanna take a swing at me? Make yourself feel better? Go ahead."

John looked down at his hand and after a moment or two, unclenched it. He rubbed the back of his head. "Bobby, I can't think straight with all that going on in there."

"That might be exactly what Dean wants."

That got John's attention. "What?"

"Listen to me for one second, you idjit. He's playing you. Dean's not right, and you know it."

"You saw his eyes. They're green, not light grey."

"Sure. I saw them. Why the color change all of a sudden? Why would the Handmaidens leave now? They don't leave unless the victim is dead, and Dean looks mighty damn healthy to me. We shot him, John. That's not a cure."

"His eyes…" John's voice trailed off.

"You know I'm right about this. If Dean wasn't your son, would you feel this way? No. You'd look at him as though he was a civilian, like he was a problem to be solved."

John bristled. "He's my son ---"

"That's right. That's why you have to watch yourself, you damned fool."

They both turned as soon as they heard the engine noise coming up the driveway before they saw it. It was a dusty black Jeep Cherokee with rental plates. It pulled in right next to the Impala.

_Here we go,_ John thought.

"Lussier?"

"I dunno." _If this woman's wasting my time I'm going to shoot her myself._

The driver's side door swung open, and the woman who stepped out _was_ silver haired. Maybe she'd never see forty again in this lifetime but she certainly wasn't frail.

Smooth, chocolate brown skin, and her hair was a feathered cap of silver that perfectly framed her face. She was no kid; that was for sure, but John couldn't tell how old she was. She was tall and pleasantly round in all the right places. She was dressed in a black leather sleeveless vest, a red t shirt and faded blue jeans with holes at the knees.

Her arms were well-muscled. And heavily tattooed, rows and rows of symbols and sigils that ended at her wrists.

She looked at John and grinned, the skin around her eyes crinkling slightly as she closed the car door and turned on the alarm. "Gonna shoot me, huh? Fair enough. I have that effect on people sometimes. Now ask me if I give a damn about that."

Bobby and John stared at her. She didn't offer to shake hands; no one did.

"I'm Eugenia Lussier. Well? You gonna stand there gaping at me all night? You're one surly sonofabitch, so you must be John Winchester."

John nodded. "That's right. You can get us inside Dean's head so we can waste these bitches?"

Eugenia's eye roll was as snarky as Dean's ever was. "Straight to the point. Twenty questions, huh? Okay. Yeah, I can do that."

"I want to know why you can do what you do."

"I made a deal." She shrugged. "To save my brother."

John scowled. "You made a deal? With a damn demon?"

"Not _who_. More of a _what_. Let's just say that there are opposing forces in this world. The Handmaidens have natural enemies."

"Good forces?" Bobby said quietly.

Eugenia smiled. "No. Just…forces. Neither good nor bad. They just are."

Bobby huffed and shook his head.

"I know you're friends with Jim Murphy. I got no hard feelings towards him, not anymore. I was too far away, didn't know what was going on here, else I would have gotten here sooner." She tilted her head to one side, stared at John intently. "Murphy probably told you to keep an eye on me. That's fine. I came here to do a job. We're not gonna link hands and sing Kumbaya."

"How's your brother?" Bobby blurted out.

"He's living with an aunt of mine down in Arizona. He can't sit around the house doing nothing, so he's taking classes at the local college. He sucked as a hunter, but he still has his brain, if that's what you're asking. The Piersons want to use that worm on your boy, am I right?"

"That's right."

"I can do better than that." She shuddered. "Let the the little bastard go somewhere else for a damn meal."

"Once we get in, how do we kill these bitches?" John said quietly. "Guns?"

"Hell no." Another eye roll. "Not unless you want to mess your kid's insides up permanently. We'll use knives. Silver ones. You know what an Arkansas toothpick is?"

John smiled a little. Bobby did too."Yeah."

"We have to cut the connection between them and Dean. That means we gotta get in close. There's a time limit."

John sighed. "I am_ so_ fucking tired of hearing _that_."

"Dean is Becoming. What weakens them will also hurt him, but if we scrag 'em all quick enough he'll be in the clear. Longer this draws on, worse it'll get for him. We go in quick, do it close and wet. Sounds dirty, but it's almost as much fun."

John snorted.

Bobby chuckled a little. "Damn. I think I'm in love."

"Okay. Enough with the twenty questions." Eugenia stepped around the two of them. "Save the wet dreams for later. I gotta see what I'm dealing with here."

* * *

"Oh my," Eugenia murmured softly, moments later. "You've got it bad, don't you sweetie?"

She knelt down so she was eye level with Dean in the cell. She was out in the hallway; John, Bobby, Caleb and Sam stood behind her. The Piersons stood off to the side.

Dean looked up, startled, and his eyes went from John to Sam to Caleb and Bobby, and back to John and Sam again. He seemed to be searching for something, and apparently got pissed off when he couldn't find it.

Dean snarled. His lips skinned back from his teeth. They were bright white and pointed.

"Come on, sweet thing," Eugenia crooned softly. "Show me what you got."

Dean's eyes faded, from green to light grey.

Eugenia's head jerked backwards. A small scratch appeared across her right cheek.

She smiled a little.

John leaned forward, and she waved him back. "Wouldn't do that if I were you. Back up, Papa."

"What the hell was _that_?" John grated out.

"_That_ was _him_." She nodded towards Dean. "He knows something's out here, but he doesn't know what. I'm in his blind spot. He can't see me unless I want him to." She glanced at the Piersons. "And right now that's just the way I want it."

"How many?"

She nodded. "Six. He's named them." She laughed, amused, a low husky sound that was actually kind of pleasant to hear. "Minnie, Bugs, Tallulah, Albert, Misty and Lambchop. Your boy's got a wicked sense of humor." She tilted her head to one side. "Damn. There's one more."

"Seven?"

"She's hiding. Deep inside. Can't get a read on her." Eugenia stood up and stepped back. "I'll know more once we get inside." She fished a set of keys out of her pocket and casually flipped them through the air at Sam. He caught the key ring without any effort.

"Sam, my duffel's in that Jeep I drove up here," Eugenia said warmly. "Think you could bring it in for me?"

"Sure." Sam jingled the keys and turned for the exit door.

"You can use our office to set up," Ida said primly. Eugenia nodded and followed John and Bobby down the hall.

* * *

The duffel was heavy, but it wasn't anything Sam couldn't handle. He locked the Jeep back up and when he turned around Clay Pierson was _there_, right in his face.

Pierson's eyes filled with pitch blackness. Sam felt something break inside his head. Pain flared behind his eyes, bright and white. Sam had just enough time to think that _Dean was right_, and the darkness swallowed him up.

* * *

All right, Terry, stop rolling your eyes. Hush up, Phoebe. Next chapter will be posted on Sunday.


	24. the lives of the wicked

**A/N:** Chapter title taken from _Epiphany_, by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_).

_**Disclaimer:**_ You know the drill: I don't own Supernatural, and I'm not very happy about it.

* * *

_**Chapter 24 - the lives of the wicked should be made brief**_

Shit! Shit!

Nothing he did worked. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right. He had Dad and Sam, he _had _'em, so guilty and anxious and relieved. They were ready to believe so damn bad that he was okay when he showed them the green in his eyes.

Bobby didn't buy it, though. Neither did Caleb. They screwed things up, gave Dad and Sam time enough to step back, to think.

Dean wasn't very fond of Bobby and Caleb right now.

Not one damn bit.

And those two demons, well, how the hell was he supposed to know they were shielded somehow?

Dean blew out a breath as he leaned against the underside of the gurney. He felt that tingling sensation along the lower part of his spine, and that much about him hadn't changed. He was screwed, well and truly, and he knew it.

Minnie had gone back inside with the others. She seemed disappointed in him now. He could tell by the way she looked at him, eyes nearly slitted, with that odd purse of her lips. He was their special one, and they were his, and now look where all his cleverness had gotten them? Maybe he wasn't special after all. Maybe they'd backed the wrong boy.

Tallulah, Bugs, Misty and Lambchop were unhappy. Dean could feel that too.

And he could hear Albert, that bitch, grumbling and complaining to anyone who would listen.

Moments ago Dean looked up and saw Bobby, Sam, Caleb and John standing out in the hallway looking at him.

They were all worried about him, and that was just too bad. He was fine just the way he was now. He wasn't sick. He was fine. He just needed to get out, needed to eat. Needed to make sure that Sammy and Dad would never leave him ever again, and was it wrong to feel that way?

They stood there staring, and Dean felt something that he didn't recognize right away.

It was hope.

Maybe he had a second chance now, right?

Why the hell _not_? He was Dad's son and Sam's brother, after all. Why would they go to all this trouble if they were just gonna toss him away? This was gonna be cake. A little confused moaning, a few good hard tugs tug on the old heart strings, lay on the guilt, and John and Sam were gonna be fighting Bobby and Caleb to open the door.

And once he got out, maybe he and Minnie could show Bobby and Caleb how much they didn't appreciate them sticking their damn noses in where they didn't belong.

It was showtime.

Dean widened his eyes, deepened the color until they were so bright and green he knew Dad and Sam wouldn't be able to resist. He felt it when they both softened before. They had their son back, their brother back.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks.

Something else was out there. He couldn't see it, but he felt it, quick, and bright and deadly. This new thing, though, it was new and old at the same time. It had killed Handmaidens before, killed them and laughed about it, and it was coming.

Dean couldn't put a name to it, but it knew more about him than he knew about it. It was coming, and it wouldn't stop until Minnie and the others were gone.

He didn't want that, so he lashed out.

And it laughed at him. Fucking_ laughed_ at him.

He dropped the color in his eyes, didn't mean to, but he did just the same.

Dad stood there staring at him, and so did Sam. They looked disappointed somehow, like he'd let him down. Dad stood there for another long moment, and then he turned and walked away from the cell.

Son of a bitch.

Dean knew by the look on Dad's face that the time for tricks was past. He'd blown it, he'd fucked it up, like he always had.

He pulled back inside himself. Inside was the only direction he could go. He could have thrown himself against the wards surrounding the room, but just looking at them made his skin prickle and burn. The only way he could have gotten out would have been if Dad or Sam let him out, and Dean was pretty damn sure now there was no way in hell that was gonna happen.

Dean remembered those talks he and Dad had, about not living (living? and wasn't that a fucking joke?) like the things they hunted. He closed his eyes, was vaguely aware of his body as he slumped against the underside of the gurney.

Albert paced back and forth in the hallway of the house. Her eyes flared bright silver when she saw him. She was pissed and Dean felt his own anger flare up inside him.

"Your fault!" Albert raged. "Your fault we're here!"

Dean cocked his head to one side. She was on all fours, and he was still two legged. He circled to the left. Albert went right.

The fingers on Dean's right hand lengthened, his nails sharp claws now. His eyes were a startling light grey, so light it seemed that he was blind, but he wasn't. He stared at Albert as he moved. He could see her weak spots. Didn't realize it until now, but he couldn't stand this bitch.

"It's his fault." She glared at Dean. "His fault we're here, trapped like this. He should've killed the little brother when he had the chance. His fault, and yours too!" she hissed at Minnie. Minnie bared her teeth at her, but she didn't say much. Her eyes flicked back and forth from Dean to Albert.

Dean thought he knew why.

Something dark rippled across Albert's eyes like an oil slick across water, and she leaped at Dean, snarling, her mouth stretched impossibly wide. He stepped back, and his right hand went around her throat. It was a snug fit. He dug his claws in and leaned back as she raked at him with her hands.

Dean squeezed. Albert's lifeline ran from her head down to her toes. Dean squeezed, and the light in her eyes went out.

Albert's legs went rubbery as she shuddered all over. She was a puppet with her strings cut.

Dean lost interest almost immediately. He opened up his fingers and she slid out of his grip, crumbled and dissolved into nothingness even before her body hit the floor.

"Are we gonna have a problem about this?" Dean said quietly.

"No," Lambchop murmured softly. Tallulah stretched like a cat and shook her head. Bugs snorted.

"Good." Misty rolled her eyes. "I never liked her anyway."

"You should have asked me first," Minnie purred. She slinked up to Dean and she smiled when she looked down and saw his right hand curl up into a fist. She stood up, raked her fingers through Dean's hair, striping his skin down his neck and shoulders.

Dean didn't flinch. Minnie laughed as she licked his blood off her claws. "But I never liked her either."

She pushed against Dean, slow and insistent, and he swept her up in his arms and turned towards the stairwell leading to the upstairs bedroom. She was warm and soft, and her mouth tasted like strawberries mixed with bitter ashes. He could lose himself in her, for a while at least.

* * *

John, Bobby and Eugenia turned and went the opposite way down the hallway. Caleb shook his head and tried not to grin. That Eugenia was something else. Caleb had been around women hunters before, but she was in a class all by herself. Caleb turned to follow them and…

_Caleb?_

It wasn't a voice so much. It was a feeling. A really strong feeling that tugged at his guts and made him uneasy. He'd had that feeling before on hunts.

Sam passed by, in the opposite direction, with Eugenia's car keys.

_Turn around._

Caleb did.

Clay Pierson followed Sam out a moment later. That uneasy feeling in the pit of Caleb's stomach got even stronger.

Caleb reached into his back waistband and skimmed his fingers across the butt of his pistol. He checked his left jacket pocket for that flask of holy water he always carried as he moved towards the rear door.

* * *

"Is there anything else I can get for you?" Back in the office Ida was all business. Eugenia sat sprawled carelessly in the chair behind the desk, one leg draped over the right chair arm. Bobby sat on one corner of the desk.

John paced the room like a restless tiger.

"Nope," Eugenia drawled. John was walking back towards the front of the room when Ida stiffened, froze in place. Her head snapped up.

"You stupid sonofabitch," Ida rumbled. Her voice was unnaturally deep.

And her eyes were pitch black.

* * *

"Got you now, you little bastard," Clay said gleefully. Sam was on his knees, his eyes closed, his face slack. Clay had his hand fisted in Sam's shirt, which was the only reason Sam hadn't face planted into the pavement. Clay leaned forward.

"I know you can hear me. I just scrambled that brain of yours like an egg. Just a little. We're gonna have some fun now, boy."

"I got a better idea," Caleb whispered in Clay's ear, and the demon turned around, right into the splash of holy water from the flask. It caught him full in the face.

Clay screamed. He clawed at his face with his hands as his skin steamed with smoke and sulfur. Caleb pushed past him, grabbed Sam by the shoulders as the boy slumped bonelessly forward.

Clay Pierson threw his head back as he dropped to his knees. He screamed, loud and piercing as his mouth split open, from ear to ear, and a long thick coil of black smoke came billowing out and upward into the night air.

* * *

"Son of a bitch!" John snarled.

Ida opened her mouth and blackness poured out. It churned into the hallway, sent the rear exit door flying off its hinges. The room was filled with the stench of sulfur. Ida Pierson collapsed to the floor, cold and grey and definitely dead.

Eugenia lunged forward out of the chair. She put her hand on John's shoulder, pulled him back.

John turned around and punched her, right in the face.

Eugenia's head rocked back. A small trickle of blood ran out of her nose, but she didn't hesitate. She struck back, smashed her fist squarely into John's jaw. John responded, and they stood there toe to toe, trading punches.

"Hey, Bobby yelled out. "Hey!"He bulled his way between the two of them. "Enough! Damn it, I said enough!"

John looked at her, narrowed his eyes. His mouth and nose were swollen and bloody. "You knew." It wasn't an accusation; it was a simple statement of fact.

"I suspected. I wasn't sure." Eugenia dropped her guard slightly. "You wanna go again? Fine by me."

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Wasn't sure. I had my doubts. Would you have believed me if I told you?"

John hesitated.

Eugenia smirked. "Thought so. You hunters only believe what you see." She wiped the blood from her nose and mouth with the back of her hand.

"Don't have time for this crap," Bobby muttered crossly.

"Think you might owe the lady there an apology," Caleb said from behind. John and Bobby turned towards the door. Caleb stood in the doorway with Sam leaning heavily on him. Sam was awake, but he was pale and his eyes were unfocused. Caleb moved forward, and Sam stumble-stepped with him.

"Christ. Sit down," John rumbled. He pulled the office chair out from behind the desk and helped Caleb set Sam down.

"Saw that Pierson fella following Sammy out to the truck. He put some kind of whammy on your boy here." Caleb looked at Eugenia and smirked a little. "That was you inside my head, huh? Usually I hate that kind of crap, but this time I'll make an exception."

John huffed. If he had apologized Bobby was going to start yelling "Christo."

John didn't. Bobby pushed past him into the hallway.

Sam's head bobbled as he stared owlishly at his father. "There're two of you."

Eugenia sat down on the corner of the desk, and seemed genuinely surprised when Bobby came back with two bottles of water, one for her and one for Sam.

John grunted, then flinched. His mouth hurt. "What about me?"

"You started it, you damn fool," Bobby snapped. "Go get your own."

Eugenia took a long sip, then capped the bottle back up. "Hate to be a bitch about this but we got work to do." She glanced down at Ida Pierson's corpse and wrinkled her nose.

Caleb bent down and grabbed the body by the wrists. "I'm way ahead of you. One salt and burn, coming up. Looks like she's been dead for quite a while. Her husband too, probably."

"We're gonna have to fortify this place. Just in case they decide to come back," John said quietly.

Bobby nodded.

Eugenia wobbled a little as she got up from the desk. "I got some things I need to do in the meantime. We have to prepare a room. Dean needs to be restrained. If we do this right, Caleb can stay behind, watch our backs. There's one more thing. You might as well take another swing at me, John Winchester, 'cause I know you're not gonna like it."

John scowled darkly. "What?"

"Dean needs Sam right now, just as much as he needs you. Sam's coming in with us."

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, I know this isn't my usual evil cliffie. I'll do better next time. Next post for this fic will be Wednesday.


	25. how seldom it is one meets

_**A/N:**_ Well, it's Thursday. Missed it by that much! Wanted to post late last night, but I admit it, I'm a review junkie and I always wanna hear what you guys think of this, good, bad, or indifferent. Can't have a hunt without preparation, and I think you'll like this one. We get some insight into Eugenia's character, Sam does his part, and John throws a hissy fit. Chapter title taken from _Pretty Women_, by Stephen Sondheim_ (Sweeney Todd)_.

_**A/N #2:**_ Yes, Terry, I'm warning you in advance that this ends with a cliffhanger, but we get down to bloody business in the next chapter. Please don't hurl that dead horse at me. Or those dead cats. I know you created straightjacket!Dean for me, and you didn't hold him hostage until this fic is over. I appreciate that! I really do!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 25 – how seldom it is one meets a fellow spirit**_

"S-Sam's what?" John stuttered.

Caleb nearly dropped Ida Pierson's dead body.

Bobby froze.

Sam's eyes widened. He jerked a little, spilled some of the water from the bottle in his hand on his jeans. He sat straight up in the chair, suddenly alert.

"Oh Lord," Bobby muttered.

"You heard me. " Eugenia rolled her shoulders. John stood up and turned towards her.

"Sam's not going in," John rumbled, and the tone of his voice was deceptively calm and quiet. "That's final."

Sam snorted. "Hell it is." John glanced back at his youngest, with no effect.

"It's not your choice. It's Sam's."

"I'm Sam's father." Sam snorted again when he heard that. "And I say no."

"You're Dean's father too. When those Handmaidens die, he may decide to go with them."

John blinked. Then: "Dean wouldn't do that."

"He wouldn't do that before. He might now. They poisoned him, John. He's all twisted up inside. Right now? I can't predict exactly what he'll do when we show up. The only thing I can say is that if he sees Sam, if he sees you and Singer, Dean might decide to stay. He'll remember his former life. I can help him with that, but it's up to him whether he wants to stay or not."

Bobby grunted.

"Dad?" Sam whispered quietly. "I'm in. I can_ do_ this."

"Thought you said you could guarantee Dean getting clear." John's right hand curled up into a fist.

Eugenia didn't drop her eyes or step back. "I said I could get us inside Dean's head. I never guaranteed anything else. That's what you're hoping for. That's what _I_ want too."

John's shoulders sagged. "I already lost one son…" It was barely a whisper. The others didn't hear it, but Eugenia did.

"Dean's not lost. He will be if we don't do this, and do it fast. You've come this far. Please tell me you're not gonna give up on him now?"

John stood there quietly. Too quietly.

_You're no good to me like this, _Eugenia thought. _Okay. Bitch mode._

Eugenia's expression hardened. "Winchester, give me a fucking break. Do you want this done, or not?" John's head snapped up at the harsh tone in her voice. "I'm a better option than that damn worm those black eyes were gonna use on your boy. This is the life you choose for your sons. You could've walked away after your wife died, but you didn't. It's a little late to get all girly now. What, it's okay for your eldest son to put himself in danger on these hunts---"

John flinched.

"--- but it's not okay for your youngest son to do the same, even if it's to help his brother? You want me to lie about this? Not gonna happen. This ain't no picnic we're going on, but we got pretty damn good odds on our side." She stepped closer then, within arm's reach. "Now the question is, do you want to go inside and free your boy? Give back what you've been getting for the last two weeks?"

"I want my son back. I want Dean." John blinked. "And I want to kill all those bitches."

Eugenia's grin reached her eyes. "Well, all right then. First things first. John and Sam are going to move Dean to another room."

Bobby scowled. "Not gonna use the containment cell?"

"Nope. The fact that they put him in there makes me want to _not_ use it even more. We need a central location, the higher up the better. You know the drill. Salt and anything else you can think of around the perimeter. We're out in the boonies. Don't think cops or nosy neighbors are gonna be a factor."

"Fair enough." Caleb grinned a little. "Hey, old man," he said to Bobby. "Not gonna do any heavy lifting, huh?"

"Old man?" Bobby rumbled. "Young 'un, I can lift way more than you can carry."

Caleb laughed. "Show me what you got, then."

* * *

_Damn,_ Eugenia thought darkly. That unwelcome tickle at the base of her skull was annoying the hell out of her. _I don't have time for this._

Dean Winchester lay still and quiet on the large wooden table in the middle room one floor up. No windows, which was fine.

Dean hadn't reacted at all as John and Sam lifted him up from the floor in the cell. His head lolled forward, then back, almost bonelessly. John tried to carry him, but Eugenia insisted that Sam help too.

"He needs to know that you're both here for him, John."

Once Dean lay on the table in the room upstairs Sam helped Eugenia and John draw protection sigils on the walls, floors and ceilings. The boy didn't say very much, just kept glancing at Eugenia like he wanted to say something. She was just finishing up the last sigil on the door when he walked up behind her and cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said hoarsely.

_Thanks for not fucking up like my Dad_ _did _was what he was thinking.

_You're welcome. I guess. Haven't done anything yet. And your Dad didn't fuck up_.

Hearing her voice inside his head made Sam's eyes go wide. John turned away from the wall he was working on, frowning, which was good. Damn good. He was alert. They'd need all that and more.

When they were finished John carefully pulled the white sheet around Dean's chest. It was a useless gesture, since he was already covered up, but Eugenia got it. Father John was back, at least for the moment. Sam hovered around the head of the table, staring anxiously at his brother. The slight intake and the rise and fall of his chest was the only indication they had that he was still alive.

* * *

"...touching me…" Dean whispered. "Dad. Sam…"

He twisted and turned restlessly in his sleep. His freckles were faint smudges of washed out brown color against his pale skin.

Minnie and the others covered him like a blanket in bed, pushed him down into the mattress as he arched his back upwards against their weight.

"…coming…they're coming for me…" Dean muttered.

"Don't listen to them," Minnie growled fiercely. She kissed the side of Dean's jaw, licked at his stubble with her forked blue tongue. "You're ours now. Always will be. They left you. Abandoned you. We never will. If we go into the darkness, will you follow us, beauty?"

"Yesss," Dean whispered softly.

* * *

_Woman. I'm coming out. I want to see. _

_Son of a bitch. _Eugenia schooled her face into a curiously blank mask. _You wait. I don't want you coming out now. _

John Winchester stood there, quiet and still himself, staring down at his eldest son. He looked sad, and tired. His hands shook as he reached and and skimmed his finger's across Dean's forehead.

Sam gently put his fingers on Dean's uninjured shoulder.

"John?" Eugenia said softly. "Could you and Sam help Bobby and Caleb with the salt lines? Soon as we get that done, it's showtime."

John nodded. Sam followed his father out the door, cast one last glance backwards at his brother.

Eugenia went to her duffel bag and pulled out several small bags of protection herbs and charms.

_Wait, you damn bastard. _Eugenia was careful not to speak out loud. Wouldn't do for John or Sam to hear her talking to herself.

Or to _see _any of this.

She cocked her head to one side as she sensed John and Sam walk down the hallway. If they came back, she'd know. Plenty of time to indulge the fool who was hitchhiking inside her head.

The air over Dean Winchester shifted into twisting bands of light, steel grey and bright silver._ So this is the chosen one, eh? _The voice was deceptively light and airy. The front part dipped downwards, inches away from Dean's nose._ What a beautiful man child. I could let him breathe me in. Tear him up from the inside. Make this fast. Then I could use this body. Keep you warm at night, Eugenia._

Eugenia snorted. _In your dreams. Will you get the hell away from him? Do you want to warn them it's us, or did your IQ drop the last time you came out?_

It moved away from Dean, and its displeasure made her skin prickle. Didn't bother her one bit; slid off her skin like water off a duck's back.

His name was Oberon, and he was just as damned obnoxious as he was the first time she ever laid eyes on him.

_It. Him._ She supposed it was male.

She called him Opie instead. She could feel how insufferable he got whenever she used his proper name, and besides "Opie" royally pissed him off. He knew enough about human culture (Eugenia made sure of it) to become annoyed whenever she ran the theme from the "Andy Griffith Show" inside her head, continuously, on a loop, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop her.

The Others saw to that.

Eugenia glanced at Dean, lying there so still and quiet. Giving these hitch-hikers names took them down a peg; she could sympathize. _Got more than one inside your head, huh, kid? That's a tough gig. Don't know if I could handle more than one._

Opie chose to ignore that last comment._ You don't have to do it like this. I understand if you want to get your hands dirty. There are easier, quicker ways. You could kill him and be done with it. Slit his throat. Cut out his heart. These hunters are of no consequence._

_Well, isn't it damn lucky for everybody that I'm in charge, and not you? _Eugenia placed one bag in each corner of the room.

_I could be, Eugenia. I could be more than just a passenger._

_Could be, but you're not. As long as I kill Handmaidens for your kind, and I do, you don't get to bitch about anything I do._

_But you want to save humans at the same time. I don't understand._

_Why is exactly why your sorry ass is not driving. _Eugenia went back to her duffel bag and pulled out a brown leather knife sheath. _Not now, not ever._

_You use our ways, but you won't let me have any fun. _It looked at Dean hungrily._ I could have my own body. His would do just fine. _

Eugenia pulled the Arkansas toothpick out of its sheath, made a few passes in the air with it with a quick flick of her wrist. _And isn't that just the same kind of talk that got you dethroned in the first place?_

_Hmpf. _

_Bored now. Now shut up, get the hell back inside and let me work. _

Opie vanished slowly, taking his own sweet time about it. She felt that familiar weight at the back of her skull again.

_And no tricks. I want your ass ready when it's time to go to work. _

_As you wish. _Sonofabitch was sulking. That was fine, for now.

Eugenia closed her eyes, memorized the weight and heft of the knife blade in her hand. It was a dagger with a twenty inch pointed straight blade. It was all purpose, good for throwing and thrusting and slashing, created by James Black, the same genius that gave the world the Bowie knife.

Her stomach fluttered madly. Nerves. After all this time, after all she'd seen, she always got butterflies during a job.

She smiled a little. That was good. Meant that she was still human. For a while longer, at least.

Five minutes before John and Sam, and Bobby and Caleb walked in Eugenia stripped her shirt and vest off and pulled on a black sleeveless t shirt.

Showtime.

* * *

Marty blinked. He stared stupidly at what was standing in front of him, and then he blinked again.

He liked this night watchman job. He really did. He didn't get high or drunk as often as he did when he worked days. He didn't get along with humans during the day. Never had, and he didn't know why. Nights at the yard was peaceful, except for the occasional idiot who decided to jump the fence, or the odd coyote or dog who decided to wander through.

What was standing in front of him wasn't any of those.

It was smoke. Two man-sized clouds of black smoke. They tilted their heads to one side as they stood there staring at him. They didn't have eyes but they stared just the same.

The one on the left nodded, and Marty could swear that it was smiling at him. "Hey," his voice inside his head rumbled. "Nice dump truck you got there."

The other one laughed.

Marty nearly dropped his flashlight. He backed up, bumped the backs of his knees against the grill of the dump truck.

The first cloud looked at the other. "You know they've burned our bodies by now. All of this is your own damn fault. You couldn't wait to go after that Winchester brat."

The thing shrugged. "He pissed me off."

"_He pissed me off,"_ it said mockingly. "You are a damn fool."

"Well." It looked at Marty. "Gee, where are our manners? I used to be Clay, and this," it jerked its head at the other one, "was Ida. You don't mind if we borrow some stuff of yours for a while, do ya, sport?"

Marty took a deep hitching breath, inhaled thick black smoke.

He couldn't even scream.

* * *

They stared openly at the tats on her arms. Eugenia really couldn't blame them. Hunters didn't have time for civilized bullshit. The sigils weren't Latin. Bobby frowned. She could see the wheels turning in Sam's head. Hell, she could almost hear them. _What the fuck?_

Caleb hefted his shotgun, shifted his duffel to his right shoulder. He was loaded down with just about every weapon and amulet he could think of. "You got any idea how long this is gonna take?"

Eugenia's shrug was loose, almost careless. "Depends on how lively our playmates are."

Sam hefted the Arkansas Toothpick in his hand easily, just like she thought he would. He flicked the blade through the air, looked at her and grinned brightly, like a wolf cub. "Is this all you got?"

John grunted.

_Nope. _They all startled a little as her voice sounded inside their heads_. Better get used to this, gentlemen. Best line of communication we've got._ Eugenia moved over to the table, stood right at Dean's head. He was so still and pale, but he was breathing. That was something, at least.

_Okay. John, I need you here, at my right. _

John stood there.

_Sam? On my left, please. _Sam put the dagger down and moved to his place at the opposite side, on the left.

_Bobby. Stand at the foot of the table, at Dean's feet._

Bobby frowned._ Don't you need to touch me?_

_Touch is for amateurs. I got way more juice than that. _Eugenia grinned, bright and feral. _Caleb?_

_I got your backs,_ Caleb drawled. _Scrag one of the bitches for me, will ya?_

_Bobby snorted. "See you when we get back."_

Eugenia took a deep breath, and at the end of the exhale her eye color changed. Her eyes blazed with color, rich, deep and golden.

Caleb jumped. Bobby, Sam and John didn't react. They didn't even blink.

"Guys?" Caleb took a cautious step forward. John's eyes were a lighter shade of gold. So were Bobby's and Sam's. Caleb reached out, gingerly poked John in the arm.

Nothing. Dude felt like he weighed a ton.

_Damn._ Caleb shook his head. He poked Bobby and Sam just to make sure. Same thing.

Then he went out in the hallway and stood guard. It was kind of lonely out there, and for a moment he wondered how Pastor Jim was getting along with his dogs. Caleb missed them.

* * *

"Son of a bitch," John said softly.

He stared at the house. It was their old house, back in Lawrence, and the sight of it gave him the creeps. The sky overhead churned with wind and darkness, but the air was stale, dead, even as the wind gently rustled the grass around them.

"What the hell is this?"

"Dean's memory house," Eugenia's tone was quiet, somehow respectful. "Everybody's got one, whether they know it or not."

They all wore the daggers in leather holsters across their back. Sam looked down in surprise. He wore leg holsters with a dagger securely strapped in on each side. John, Bobby and Eugenia wore the same.

Bobby nodded as he looked around. They were in the middle of a vast, flat plain, nothing but green grass from horizon to horizon. The only bare spot was the part where the house sat, right in the middle of a large perfect circle of dead brown grass. Even the large tree out front was nothing but a skeleton.

"I want to remind you all that Dean's sick. Whatever you're seeing here is not how he is normally. He might try to distract us. play on the feelings you have for him so they can get the drop on you. Don't be fooled by anything you see. First things first. We need to seal them off even more, so they can't run." She nodded at the holsters. "That's the gift that keeps on giving. Use one, and another takes its place." She reached out, unstrapped the holster at John's hip and pulled the knife out. Another knife appeared in the holster as soon as the blade tip cleared the leather.

John grunted in satisfaction.

"I want you to stake all four corners of the house with two toothpicks each. Put them in all the way up to the hilt."

Bobby, John and Sam worked in silence. Eugenia stood there on the front step, staring at the door. When John glanced at her he could have sworn her eyes were golden.

As he slammed the blade down into the dead, dry earth it suddenly occurred to John that he was hurting Dean somehow. He placed his hand flat against the earth, and listened.

He could feel a heartbeat, fast and panicky.

_Dad, please…sorry…'m sorry…_

John glanced around. Bobby and Sam worked quietly; either they hadn't realized it or they chose not to. The damn holsters never emptied. That was the thing. There were more knives in there, and he remembered what Eugenia said about having to be quick about this.

…_what hurts them hurts Dean…_

John huffed back a laugh. Hell, that was the way it had gone for the last couple weeks, huh? Maybe Sam was right all long…

"_You couldn't save Mom. And you won't be able to protect me. Or Dean."_

John knelt there. He closed his eyes, fought down that helpless feeling. He thought about Mary on the night she died. Dean and Sam were the best things in his life, the only things he had left of her.

"You're not gonna take my boy," John growled at the things inside the house, and he really didn't give a fuck if he said it out loud.

_He's ours, old man. Ours. We'll never leave him like you have._

_Pack your bags, bitches. It's time for you to go. _

John opened his eyes, stood straight up. He looked like judge, jury and executioner. Eugenia raised an eyebrow as he walked up to her and growled, "Now what?"

Bobby and Sam walked over just as Eugenia held up the knife in her hand. "Pin this one in the center, in the door. No need to be quiet about this. They already know we're here. Call it down on 'em, John."

John smiled as he took the knife.

He sunk the blade deep into the front door panel, then stepped back and put his boot to the door. The door frame splintered as the door slammed backwards against the wall.

* * *

Upstairs in the master bedroom, Minnie moved off the bed first. Lambchop whimpered, but she stopped when Minnie raked her across her face with her claws. Dean sat up slowly as the last, Misty, slunk off the bed. He ached all over, sharp pains that stabbed all the way down to his core.

"Daddy's home," Dean whispered roughly, and his voice cracked like broken glass.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Yep, another cliffie. Aw, you know you love it. And you'll be back here on Monday to find out what happened.

The chapter title says it all: _another red day_


	26. her ardent and eager slave

_**A/N:**_ Sorry it took so long to choreograph all the mayhem. The battle inside Dean Winchester's head begins right here. Chapter title taken from _Pretty Women,_ by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd_). I might use _another red day_ as a chapter title for when things gets really bloody.

* * *

_**Chapter**__**26 – her ardent and eager slave**_

"I like these toys," Clay grinned. He fingered the revolver in Marty's side waistband. "And I really like_ this_." He patted the dashboard of the dump truck. He turned on the headlights as he made a left hand turn out of the truck yard onto the highway. The trunk engine rumbled as he put Marty's foot down on the gas pedal hard. Wouldn't be long now.

The truck was painted blood red, and that was _really _appropriate. It was solid, a heavy duty brute, just right for crashing through walls and breaking salt lines. Clay figured the hunters laid them down already.

And maybe, if he got really lucky, he could run over that John Winchester as a bonus, smash that sullen sumbitch flat as a pancake.

"You should have taken our offer, Johnny," Clay sang out loud. He glanced in the rear view mirror and chuckled at Marty's eyes. They were larger than normal and black as coal. "That earwig really liked your boy. He's tasty."

Clay laughed again, hoping Ida would join in.

She didn't.

Ida bumped restlessly against the confines of Marty's bloated flesh. Marty weighed two hundred twenty pounds when he was alive. Now he was three hundred, but it was still a tight fit. He wasn't as roomy as he looked. Clay sighed to himself as his mate very pointedly curled up into a far corner and sulked.

Ida wasn't used to sharing like he was. He remembered back in the day, when he roamed roads and valleys searching for a suitable host among the travelers out there, and a single meatsuit was passed around from spirit to spirit. Sometimes the bodies were whole, sometimes they were missing an arm or a leg or a hand, and that was on a very good day. That was the way his unlife had been, hard and rough at first.

She was still mad at him about the Winchester boy, but she'd get over it. She'd been pampered topside, and it was all Clay's fault.

He shifted gears, and the screech of metal reminded him of someone screaming, like that Sam Winchester would do when Clay caught up to him again, and it was such a delightful sound that Clay grinned from ear to ear.

* * *

Dean kneeled on the floor by the bed. He startled when Minnie put out her hand to touch the side of his face. "…don't want Dad an' Sam to see," he muttered, his eyes dull with pain. "…did…stuff…bad stuff…"

"I know, beauty, I know," Minnie cooed as she knelt beside him. Misty, Lambchop, Bugs and Tallulah hovered nervously by the door. "But we can use what you've got in those rooms downstairs."

"…don't wanna hurt Sam or Dad," Dean slurred. "…she tol' me not to...told me…"

"Who?" Minnie barked. "Who told you, Dean?"

Dean shook his head_ no._ "Dad…Sam…didn't lea' me…they didn't…"

Minnie's eyes flared silver. She reached out, grabbed Dean by the chin and dragged his head down so that he stared her in the eyes. "They _left_ you!" she hissed. "They _always_ leave you! Sam will leave you for good in a few years from now, first chance he gets. Do you want that, Dean? _Do you_?"

"…nuh…" Dean shuddered. "…pl-please…"

Minnie smiled. "You're our beautiful boy. Our sweet, beautiful boy, and _we _will_ never_ leave you." She leaned forward, brushed her lips against his mouth. "We go everywhere you go. When _you_ feast, we_ all_ feast. And if we have to, we'll even go into the dark together. Isn't that right?"

Dean nodded _yes_, weakly.

Minnie smiled, bright and warm. Dean slumped against her. Minnie easily shouldered his weight as she gently lowered him to the floor onto his back. "I can help you, Dean. I can," she murmured softly as she stroked the side of his face. "We can fix this together. Fix it so no one will ever leave you, ever again."

Minnie's fingernails grew into dark grey spikes.

Dean blinked.

"Close your eyes, sweetness."

Dean did.

Minnie sank all ten of her fingernails into Dean's face, around his hairline.

His back arched, but he bit back the scream that rippled up from his belly to his throat.

"That's my good boy," Minnie purred. She looked up at the others over her shoulder and bared her teeth at them. "What are you waiting for? Go."

* * *

_Son of a bitch,_ John thought.

He was through the door first, even as the door slammed backwards and the doorknob embedded itself into the wall. Sam and Eugenia were behind him. Bobby had their six.

John glanced over at the living room and the breath in his chest stuttered like someone had slammed him in the heart with an ice pick.

Dean was _there_, in that room, and John knew it wasn't_ really_ him. It was just a memory, something the Handmaidens had twisted all up into something dark. Dean stood in the middle of the room, facing the door, but he didn't even react to John.

Eugenia knelt and stuck a dagger into the hard wood floor at their feet. She stood up and moved past John. _So the bastards can't come at us from below._

John nodded. He closed the door, filled his hand with another dagger, pinned it into the door panel. That was one less door to worry about, one less place for the bitches to hide.

The others moved past him, each one picking a room to clear. Each door had to be closed and pinned. There were five more rooms on this floor, and they each had to be checked and dealt with quickly. John could hear snatches of conversation, low and hushed. Most of the voices he didn't recognize.

He recognized Dean's voice. In one of the rooms further down it sounded like Dean was crying.

Bobby had that one. He shook his head as he closed the door and pulled out his dagger. "You lousy sonsofbitches," he growled fiercely.

John caught a glimpse of the look on Sam's face just then. Sam had his door closed and his dagger in his hand by the time John walked by. His youngest son had his game face on, his chin tilted upwards at a defiant angle. That expression was usually aimed at John. Not this time. Whatever was inside hadn't bothered him; it was clear Sam didn't believe a word of this.

_Attaboy_, John thought.

That scene in the first room wasn't _real_. That _wasn't _Dean. Dean never looked like that, his eyes too bright and wild, never moaned the way he did as that older man touched him all over his body.

John refused to believe that.

The kitchen was the last one, and it was the worst. It was Pastor Jim's kitchen, all bright and cheerful. Even the Mickey Mouse cookie jar on the counter was exactly the same.

Sam's body lay curled up on the kitchen table, wrapped up to his bare shoulders by the red and white checkered table cloth. Even from the doorway John could see that most of his chest was gone, carved away.

Dean stood in front of the stove frying meat in a skillet, dressed only in a pair of faded blue jeans. His freckled skin was streaked with blood, around his mouth, down his chest and arms. He hummed a Metallica song while he cooked and seemed pretty damned cheerful about the whole thing.

John couldn't close _that _door and pin it last enough.

* * *

Oberon was quiet. Too damn quiet, and he'd never been that way before, not when they were about to go in for the kill. Eugenia always felt this slight tingling underneath her skin then, there were times when she actually had to tell Opie to shut up and be quiet.

Not now.

_Wrong,_ Eugenia thought to herself. _This is all wrong. _

The tats on both arms pulled tight against her skin. It was a warning, and it was too little, too late.

_I should have my own body,_ Oberon said quietly. _I've served faithfully. The others could give me some accommodation. I think I'll sit this one out, Eugenia. See how you handle things without me. _

The walls moved all around them. The floorboards rippled underneath like waves on a sandy beach. The daggers in the doors and the floor popped up and out, twanged through the air like shrapnel.

Eugenia staggered sideways, vaguely aware of John Winchester's hand on her arm. She couldn't hear anything but Oberon's laughter, dry and amused.

_I want this one,_ Oberon murmured softly. _This Dean. Such a talented boy._

And then the floor opened up underneath her feet like a gaping mouth and swallowed her up.

* * *

"Daddd…" Dean moaned.

Caleb jumped. He turned around in the doorway, and he had to fight every instinct he had not to point his shotgun at Dean and pull the trigger.

Dark blue bruises bloomed in Dean's skin, along his temples and hairline. His eyelashes flickered, revealed flashes of dull green, then pale grey.

Dean arched his back. "Sammm…"

Caleb stepped closer. The sight of John, Bobby, Sam and Eugenia frozen in place was creepy enough, but this…

Dean's right arm tensed, his fingers hooked into claws. Caleb watched a long slash open up diagonally in Dean's skin.

"Gonna lea' me…" Dean whispered breathily. "Don't lea' me, please…please…" He jerked and trembled on the table.

Caleb stood there, eyes wide in disbelief. What in God's name was going on in there?

He looked down at his shotgun and when he saw his finger was still around the trigger, Caleb very carefully eased off and lowered the weapon. Dean was unconscious, and whatever was going on inside him wasn't finished, because the others hadn't come back out yet.

All Caleb could do was stand around and watch. And wait.

_Please, dude, please…_Caleb prayed. _Stay there. Stay down._

He honestly did not know what he would have done if Dean opened his eyes, grinned at him, and climbed off that table.

Caleb heard a sound from outside. It was close. Too damn close. He froze in place while he tried to identify it. It was an engine, a big one, probably diesel.

Revved up and headed straight for the building.

A second later there was a tremendous crunch of metal against bricks. Caleb was lifted off his feet and thrown against the door frame. The entire building shook violently. The massive crunch of metal against bricks seemed to go on forever. The lights flickered wildly and dust sifted down from the ceiling.

The building groaned. The floor listed heavily to one side. Whatever this was, it was one heavy sonofabitch.

He glanced around and was not surprised to see that John, Eugenia, Bobby and Sam had been knocked off their feet. Dean still lay on the wooden table, breathing fitfully. Caleb stumbled over to them, did a quick check of their vitals. They were still breathing, so he sat each one down on the floor, propped each one up against the far wall. Then he carefully lifted Dean off the wooden table and laid him out on the floor at their feet.

Caleb overturned the table, pushed it closer to the door. It was heavy. It would do as a shield.

He shouldered his duffel bag and headed out into the hallway in a crouch. Caleb stumbled as he went, leaned against the wall to keep his balance. The floor in front of the stairwell listed heavily to the right side.

Caleb stayed low, raised up just enough to see this huge red dump truck down below. Its nose was buried in the base of the stairwell and the entire back wall had collapsed, showing night sky and the front yard beyond.

The salt lines were gone.

The driver's side door of the dump truck creaked open, and this overweight man in a brown uniform jumped out. His smile reached from ear to ear, and his eyes were twin pools of pitch blackness.

"Oh, honey?" he chirped. "We're home!"

The Piersons were back.

* * *


	27. another red day

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title taken from _Johanna_ by Stephen Sondheim (_Sweeney Todd)._

**Disclaimer:**I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 27- another bright red day **_

…_hurts…please…_

_Dean?_

…_uhnnn…_

_You have to do this, Dean. Do you hear me? You have to..._

_

* * *

_Something brushed against his shoulder, and Sam reacted. He pulled the dagger out and slashed the air around him with a flick of his wrist. He didn't expect to tag anybody, just wanted to make whoever this was back off. He was moving too fast, too soon, and his head bitched at him about it. Dizziness came in waves and everything was a blur around him. He couldn't see worth a damn, but he could feel it when the space around him cleared, and whatever this was hissed at him and backed up.

That was good enough.

Corner. Sam slammed his back into it, held the blade up, ready to block and parry and slash while he pulled the other dagger out of the sheath. His heart hammered against his ribs and his sight finally cleared in an eyeblink.

Dean was there, a few feet away, but they weren't alone.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean purred.

"Hey," Sam nodded. Another man, older and heavier, stood behind Dean. The man wrapped his arm around Dean's waist, and pulled him backwards against him.

"I did this for you, Sammy," Dean smirked. He brushed his head against the man's fingers and preened under his touch. "I did this all for you."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Hell you did." Sam's voice was a perfect imitation of John's low growl. "This isn't real. None of this is. You're sick, Dean. Eugenia said you're sick."

"She did, did she? Huh." Dean seemed to consider this as the man ran his fingers up and down his arm and shoulder, like Dean was a long-lost possession, or a new-found toy. "So what makes you think I'd never do something like this?"

"Please." Sam huffed. "You're my big brother, dude. That's why."

Dean quietly tilted his head to one side.

"This?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "It's a mind fuck."

Dean scowled. "Watch your language, dude."

"It is," Sam said smugly. "I've been around you all my life. You were always there for me, Dean. _Always_.You. Not Dad."

Dean blinked. That too-cocky smirk on his face disappeared and what was left was a slightly wide-eyed, somehow wounded expression.

The man at his back vanished into thin air.

_I'm reaching him,_ Sam thought. _I'm getting through to him…_

"You helped me with my homework. Took care of me while Dad was gone. That's why I gave you that amulet for Christmas. Remember? Uncle Bobby wanted me to give it to Dad instead."

Dean sat down in front of Sam, slowly, almost shyly.

Sam leaned forward. "You deserve it more, dude. You deserve more than this life. That's what I've been telling you all along."

There was movement in the wall behind Sam, up high and to the left.

* * *

John blinked.

Pale blue moonlight streamed in through the window over there, made the figure standing there look pale and ghostlike in the shifting light.

"Hi, Dad."

"Dean." John kept his voice deliberately casual. "How you doing, son?" He could feel the weight of the daggers in their sheaths, so he hadn't been disarmed; that meant the bitches had something else up their sleeves then. There was no furniture, nothing but him and Dean and the window, and that closed door over in the far wall.

"I dream about Mom sometimes," Dean said softly.

John nodded. "I do too."

Dean turned and stared out at the window, at the vast rolling plain beyond. "You ever," Dean said softly, "you ever wonder what it would be like if she hadn't…"

"All the damn time." There was no heat in John's voice.

Dean nodded towards the dagger at John's hip. "Is that for me?"

"No. It's for them."

"You already hurt me with that, Dad." It was a simple statement of fact, and John tried not to flinch.

The ceiling in the far corner rippled, just a little.

* * *

"Hey, Bobby."

"Dean." Bobby nodded. He stood in an empty room. Dean sat on the floor a few feet away. Dean acted as though everything was normal, like they were having a conversation in the salvage yard, instead of inside his head.

"Sorry I lost your jacket, dude."

Bobby shrugged. "Army surplus. I can always pick up another one." So how you doing, kid?"

Dean smiled weakly. "Been better."

"I bet," Bobby grunted. He fingered the hilt of the dagger at his hip and Dean's eyes didn't even flicker. "Any of your little playmates around?"

"They ditched me."

"Uh huh." _Don't con a con man, kid._

Bobby glanced around behind him, as just as he did the wall behind him stopped moving.

* * *

"Well, that didn't go like I planned," Eugenia muttered to herself.

There was a window set high in the wall above her. The light in the room was dim enough. She never had been afraid of the dark, but the dark had teeth. None of this was to be trusted. She got to her feet and shakily wiped her palms on her jeans.

_Opie, you jackass,_ she thought to herself, and there was no answer, no velvety smooth purr in response. Damn. This could only get worse. Sonofabitch wasn't sulking; she was sure of that. He was lurking around somewhere.

"So you're the bitch who came to save me, right?"

Eugenia looked to her left. Dean Winchester leaned against the door, which was the only exit. He looked healthy, not pale.

Actually, the kid looked pretty pissed off.

"That's right."

"I don't need saving."

"Yeah, you do."

Dean seemed amused. "How the hell can you save me when you can't even save yourself?"

Eugenia laughed.

Behind her, the floor at the far corner moved, a small ripple at first, then faster.

* * *

Upstairs in the master bedroom, Minnie straddled Dean, her knees pressed into the floor, on either side of his hips.

"Time to help us kill them all, beauty," she whispered. "Then you'll be free. And we'll never leave you."

"…nuh…no…"

"What?"

"…can't…"

"What?"

"…tell…them…"

Minnie dug her nails in deeper. Dean's mouth opened in a soundless scream. She leaned down, put her lips to the shell of Dean's ear. Her whisper was razor sharp. "Do it, Dean. Do as you're told."

* * *

The boy was near. That mouthy, insolent brother of the boy. He was so sure of himself, so sure he could reach his brother.

Tallulah tried not to laugh. She'd make the younger one scream, loud and long. She tried to touch him as soon as she dragged him into the room, and the brat slashed at her with his knife. No matter; she would rip the soft thin skin of his throat completely out.

Their beautiful boy, the brother, was doing his part, keeping the boy's attention on him while she slithered through the wall.

Tallulah reached out, and her claws grew long and sharp.

* * *

Bugs slid below the surface of the ceiling. The father stood underneath her, and he was talking to his boy, their beauty. He was their boy now, now and forever, and all it would take would be one quick lunge at the man. Her fingernails sharpened as she thought of ripping the soft thin skin of the man's throat out. She was so hungry, and even though this was only his spirit body, it would be enough for now. His back was to her, the foolish hunter was focused on his son.

Bugs smiled as she pushed out through the wall.

* * *

This human was older than the rest.

Lambchop crouched just on the other side of the wall. She was the youngest, and she never got the juicy bits. If she ever did, she had to fight for them. That thought was enough to make her angry. She'd kill this one, rip him apart, and then when they got back to the outside world she'd fight the others for the human flesh left behind once their spirits were ripped to shreds. She might even challenge Minnie for leadership. That would be something, wouldn't it? All she had to do was kill this one old human. Take him from behind. So easy.

Lambchop inched forward, through the wall.

* * *

The black bitch had been touched by the Old Ones, Misty thought. She hesitated underneath the floor . The scent was there, but it was weak. The woman was empty, then. Her Companion had deserted her, left her to their not-so-tender mercies. Misty scented the deaths of countless Handmaidens on this one. Misty's teeth grew long and sharp, her fingernails lengthened to razor sharp spikes.

_Just a little more,_ she thought to herself. Their green-eyed boy held the other woman's full attention.

Misty moved forward, up through the floor. It was time.

* * *

They all died.

The walls around the Handmaidens grew solid, trapped them like flies in amber. They were stuck, half in, half out, and upstairs all Minnie could do was howl as she sensed each one's dark light go out forever.

Sam Winchester turned around, dagger in hand, with a grim smile. Tallulah died screaming, her mouth stretched wide as she crumbled into coarse red ash and bits of yellow bones.

Bugs died as John Winchester slashed her across the throat.

Bobby Singer plunged his dagger into Lambchop's chest.

Eugenia sidestepped as Misty grabbed at her ankles. Eugenia unsheathed her dagger and stabbed Misty in the neck.

And all the while their boy, their green-eyed beauty, watched with hooded eyes.

Minnie pulled her nails out of Dean's skin. She screamed again as she slashed at him, scored five stripes diagonally down his left cheekbone. Dean didn't even flinch. He was beautiful in repose, calm and serene. He stared up at Minnie, smiling slightly, and a chill ran down her spine. That faraway look on his face chilled her to the bone. He wasn't seeing her. He was seeing someone else.

"…did it…" he whispered softly. "…just like you wanted me to…"

"Who told you to do that?" Minnie raged. "Who?"

Dean blinked hazily. "Mom."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Methinks I shall stop right here. Aw, come on, you knew I was evil, right? Are you really _that_ surprised? Next chapter will be posted Tuesday, and it will be a long one. There are still fuglies to kill.


	28. but there was worse to come, poor thing

**A/N: **Chapter title taken from _Poor Thing_, by Stephen Sondheim (Sweeney Todd).

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own_ Supernatural_ or _Sweeney Todd_. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

**Chapter 28 -** **but there was worse yet to come, poor thing...**

The air in each room swirled with fine grey Handmaiden ash. Oberon was barely noticeable amid all that airborne debris. It had been years since he felt the weight of a living, breathing body around him. He slid through the walls, from room to room, and it was always the same: he saw Dean Winchester, wondered how it would be to slip into that well-muscled flesh and look at the world through those wide green eyes.

_Such a beautiful boy,_ Oberon thought to himself.

The image of Dean Winchester in each of the four rooms was just a shadow of his former self. He sat there, stared blankly into space as each Handmaiden shrieked and crumbled into dust, and he didn't respond when his father and his brother shook him gently on the arm.

All four copies of Dean vanished into thin air.

Oberon deliberately avoided the basement. Eugenia was down there. He wasn't afraid of her. Well, not exactly, but there was something about the woman that unnerved him. He didn't dislike her, but the damn woman was insolent and disrespectful.

Oberon moved upwards. He'd seen the copies, now he wanted a closer look at the original. What was the harm in _that_?

* * *

_This isn't going to end well,_ Eugenia thought to herself as she climbed the stairs. This was the first time that idiot had cut and run like that during a hunt.

And probably the last time, too, for both of them. John Winchester had quite the reputation. Humans harboring fuglies, even if they were helping other people? Hunters tended to get a little prickly about details like that. As far as Eugenia was concerned, she hadn't lied. She just hadn't mentioned Oberon to any of the others. Well. The job had perks, and it also had its own price to pay. She'd known that all along.

John, Bobby and Sam looked at her as she stepped into the hallway, and she could see the question in their eyes: Did _you_ do this?

Eugenia shook her head no.

She had no idea who did.

* * *

They maneuvered Marty's bulk through the rooms downstairs with surprising swiftness. "Come out, come out where ever you are!" Clay called out merrily. Marty's ruined face split in a toothy grin that went ear to ear. Ida made Marty do an eye roll in the next moment.

Clay felt himself getting a little pissed off at the mess things were in.

They'd had a nice place, and he liked posing as Clay Pierson. It was good, steady work screwing over the humans who came to them for help, and that was all over now. The fingers of his meatsuit tingled as he imagined wrapping those broad fingers around Sam Winchester's scrawny little neck. The damn brat deserved that much, at least.

The containment cell was empty. Would have been too easy to suppose the hunters would leave Dean in there. They'd gone to ground.

Clay sniffed the air and grinned. Human scent, warm and quiet. Only one still moved, and he smelled like silver, salt, gunpowder and hunting dogs.

Clay_ hated_ dogs. Always had.

"They're still here," he said with a smile, and he looked at the wreck of the stolen truck, past the ruined staircase, at the shadows of the second floor.

* * *

Minnie howled.

She was alone for the first time ever. Her sisters were gone, all of them, and she was the only one left with this stupid, worthless boy, this traitorous bastard who didn't appreciate what he had, how good they had been together.

"Mom," Dean whispered again. He curled up, turned over on his right side. He tucked his knees up to his chest.

Minnie threw her head back and screamed. She dug her claws into the short spiky hair at the top of his head and pulled out a handful of hair.

Dean barely noticed.

Minnie slashed him again and again.

* * *

Oberon flowed through the walls without a ripple. He saw the hunters on the stairs, and the sight of Eugenia filled him with rage. She wouldn't mind her betters, namely, him. _He _was the reason she was able to get inside other's heads like this. When she made the deal to save her brother, Oberon was the one selected by the Others to teach her. He taught her the habits of Handmaidens, so that she and hunters like these could kill them, and did he get any respect at all? No.

He taught her well.

But he hadn't taught her everything.

For all he had done for these weak, fragile humans, they should worship him. They should kneel at his feet.

It was time for Eugenia to learn a lesson in humility.

Oberon pushed out at her with his mind, pushed at her hard.

* * *

The walls in the downstairs hallway rippled and wavered with each howl and wail. It wasn't Dean; they all knew that somehow.

"The bitch isn't happy," John whispered, and Bobby nodded.

Eugenia's expression was unreadable. She seemed distracted. John stopped and stared at her intently. "What?"

Her body wobbled as she shook her head. "John…" Eugenia mumbled. She seemed unsteady on her feet. "Bastard…" she mumbled softly, and it was already too late.

She staggered forward. John caught her by the arm and his fingers went right through her. Eugenia was on her knees, but that wasn't what made John, Sam and Bobby stand there in shock.

She was fading away. They could see straight through her.

"You…stupid…bastard," Eugenia gritted out. She lifted her head, stared John in the eyes. "Go…go…get…your son before he…"

And then she was gone.

"My God," Bobby whispered.

The walls and floors shook with another bloodcurdling scream. Not Dean. At least, not yet.

"Sam?" John gave his youngest a quick glance. Sam held his dagger pointed downwards at the floor, then flicked it upwards with a twist of his wrist. The kid was steady, eyes focused on the top of the stairwell.

"I'm okay, Dad."

Four down, one to go.

John nodded, and took point. Sam was in the middle. Bobby had their six.

* * *

_Mom's here. _Dean thought to himself. _It's not so bad._

He wanted to explain, he really did, but he felt so tired now. He couldn't feel his chest rise and fall, but he knew he was still breathing. That was okay. He'd stop when he was ready.

"Tried to hurt Sam. An' Dad," Dean mumbled softly to her. He didn't have strength for much else.

_You didn't. You never could,_ Mary whispered. _My sweet, brave boy._ She carded his hair with her fingers, and her touch blocked out the rest of what was happening to him. There was blood on the floor, and it felt like pieces of him were falling off.

_Angels are watching over you, Dean. And I'll always be here, too. Close your eyes, baby. Rest now._

Dean did.

* * *

"Shit," Caleb whispered to himself. "Shit!"

Something was wrong. The rest of them should have been awake by now, and they weren't. John, Bobby, Eugenia and Sam were still breathing, but probably not for long.

Dean moaned a little and the sound was so low and desperate Caleb nearly jumped out of his skin. Something was going on in there. Something bad from the sound of it.

Caleb eased down the hall, careful not to disturb the thick salt line he placed in the doorway. The line went all the way around the room. It was the last line of defense.

The salt line he'd laid out in the hallway was the first.

Another line down in front of that back doorway around the corner. That was the only other way up.

And _that _was the last of the salt.

They weren't having much luck tonight, none of them were, and it was bound to get worse. Caleb made a disgusted noise deep in his throat as he threw the empty bag away.

* * *

_So beautiful,_ Oberon thought. He reached out, brushed against pale freckled flesh. _Why shouldn't I have this? They owe me this much._

The door slammed backwards on its hinges. John came through first, the dagger in his right hand held by the tip, already in throwing position.

Minnie hissed as she rose to her feet in one fluid motion. She backed into the wall, and Dean stumble-stepped with her. She turned him so he was in front of her, a slashed and bloody shield, one hand curled around his waist. The claws of her other hand dug into the soft underside of his jaw. Droplets of blood ran down to his chest as she tightened her grip on Dean's throat. He was taller and Minnie ducked down behind his back.

"Mine now, Papa." Minnie peered around Dean's bare, bruised shoulder, then ducked back again. She laughed at the fierce look on Sam's face. "Always mine. He's not your brother anymore, little boy."

The back of Dean's head touched the wall as Minnie tightened her grip. His eyes flickered open, light grey and glassy. He was lost in his own world somewhere, staring at something only he could see.

John growled and that made Minnie laugh. She could play this game for as long as she could. She was trapped, and she knew it, but making them all suffer with the knowledge that they couldn't save Dean after all this time would be worth it.

And when she did go down in the dark, with her sisters, she'd take their beautiful boy with them. He'd run in the dark with them forever.

Minnie peered around Dean's bruised, bare shoulder.

John's right hand moved, slightly, and Minnie jerked back, behind Dean. She was just as quick as she had been before. Minnie laughed. Stupid bastard.

A thin line of blood ran down the side of Dean's arm. It was level with the spot right between her eyes.

Minnie blinked. Her head felt heavy.

_No._

Too heavy to lift. There was something…

_No…_

Something pressing against her skin.

_No…no…no…_

The hilt of John's dagger protruded from the space between her eyes.

Minnie dug her claws into Dean's skin, but it was too late. She crumbled, became totally undone, and the last thing she saw as she tumbled into the dark was the smile on John Winchester's face.

_God, he feels so light, _John thought to himself. Dean didn't stir as John checked his vitals. He was dead weight in John's arms. Still breathing. Good.

Bobby was already out the door, taking the stairs two at a time. The silver daggers planted in the ground all around the perimeter of the house had to be removed, and fast. Dean would recover faster, then.

And then they'd have to find Eugenia.

Sam stood beside his father, still as could be. A moment before Sam had been a fierce hunter, ready and willing to kill. Now Sam had the look of a young kid worried about his big brother.

"Dean?" John rumbled. "Son, I want you to open your eyes now, you hear me? Dean?"

Dean blinked.

Dean opened his eyes.

He looked at John and then Sam, and the corners of Dean's lips twitched up into a smile. His eyes weren't light grey anymore.

They weren't green, either.

They were twin pools of silver, bright and unblinking.

Oberon looked out at the world, and what he saw was good.

* * *

Next post Saturday.


End file.
